The Whisperer (18 page)

The dwarf eyed Lute with a baleful stare. ‘Now look what you’ve made me do,’ he said, shaking his head at the second broken goblet. ‘Tell me I made an error or that I misheard you, boy.’

Lute swallowed. ‘You made no error, Bitter Olof. I am the Crown Prince.’

He wasn’t sure what to expect but he didn’t expect a roar of laughter. The dwarf was instantly seized by high amusement, which raged for several seconds. The mirth only quietened as the dwarf watched Lute’s expression turn from serious to grave. Gradually his hilarity lessened until he too was as poker-faced as his guest.

‘This is a jest, surely?’ he asked.

‘No jest,’ Lute said, holding the dwarf’s intense stare. ‘My name is Lute. Prince Lute if you care to address me politely. Or,’ he smiled crookedly, “‘your majesty”, if you prefer to be formal.’

Lute watched the dwarf’s face turn pale.

‘Prove it!’ Bitter Olof demanded, jumping down from his chair by the fire again and pacing.

Lute shrugged. ‘I can’t. I have nothing to show but myself. I have no birth marks that confirm my royal blood; I carry no papers that pronounce my title. I deliberately removed the more obvious of my fine clothes so I could travel relatively unnoticed.’

‘Little Thom!’ the dwarf bellowed and the door opened, its space suddenly filled by the bulk of the man he had summoned.

‘Yes, Bitter Olof?’

‘Have we heard news from our runners, yet?’

‘They’re just arriving now. Jhen leads. Bran is a few minutes behind.’

‘Send them straight in. I would hear their reports immediately.’

Little Thom dipped his head to the dwarf but glanced Lute’s way. Lute knew the big man wondered what had upset his master. He closed the door as he left.

‘We’ll soon know the truth of your outrageous claim,’ the dwarf promised.

‘I have no reason to lie about this, Bitter Olof. I have withheld who I am until now, but I am telling you the truth. I gain nothing by lying to you. Can I fetch you another goblet of wine?’

‘Ha!’ the dwarf yelled pointing a pudgy finger at Lute. ‘No true prince of the realm would be so subservient.’

Lute replied calmly. ‘I am a prince, yes, but that doesn’t mean I don’t respect my elders. I can offer to pour you a wine, can I not? Surely good manners do not brand me an impostor.’

‘We shall see,’ Bitter Olof said, grumpily.

There was a bang on the door.

‘Come!’ the dwarf bellowed.

Little Thom arrived and behind him came a man whom Lute had not seen previously. He looked dishevelled and still wore his travelling cloak; tiny rain droplets glistened on his shoulders. He pulled off his hat and cloak before bowing to his master.

‘What news from Floris?’ the dwarf demanded.

The man nodded; he was not very old, Lute noticed. ‘Rumours only, sir, nothing we can confirm yet.’

The dwarf’s gaze narrowed. ‘Go on.’

‘There is word among the soldiers that King Rodin is dead as a result of his weak heart.’

Lute leaped down from where he had been seated in the corner of the cave. ‘Rumour only you say,’ he urged the man, his voice breaking on the last word.

The young man stepped back, his expression one of surprise that this boy would talk to him so directly, cutting across whatever his master might have said at this point.

‘It is alright, Jhen. Speak freely before the boy.’

Jhen glanced Lute’s way again but continued to talk to Bitter Olof. ‘We have not been able to confirm the King’s passing.’

‘Where is the Queen?’ Lute demanded.

Again the man hesitated, waited for the tiny gesture from the dwarf that Lute noted. ‘We have not seen or heard anything about the Queen or the rest of the royal family. Word has got around in the city that Duke Janko was about to make a statement on behalf of the family but no-one knew what it was about.’

‘How does anyone know such a thing?’ Lute asked.

The dwarf answered. ‘Ordinary people work in the palace. They aren’t all tight-lipped about what they see and hear in and around the royal family. Perhaps someone has heard something and mentioned it. Doesn’t take long for word to spread.’ He returned his attention to Jhen. ‘What else?’

‘Again, I can’t confirm this, Bitter Olof, but there is frenzied talk that Crown Prince Lute was killed during a freak riding accident not long before King Rodin passed away from a heart quake.’

Lute glared at Bitter Olof, who held up a hand. ‘My, my, a most dramatic day for our royal family. Anything more?’

‘Only that the army seems to have a larger than normal presence in and around the city, sir.’

‘How exactly?’

‘Well—’

‘Er, let me answer that,’ Lute said, looking at the dwarf. Bitter Olof gave a gesture with his hand that Lute could continue. ‘The royal army had essentially surrounded the city. Every entry point into Floris and each exit from it was covered by the Duke’s men.’

Bitter Olof frowned. ‘Is this true?’ he asked Jhen.

The man nodded. ‘We only discovered that this morning.’ Jhen looked confused and Lute knew he was wondering how a
boy would know this information—especially one already in the ‘care’ of his master. One glance at Bitter Olof told him that the dwarf was considering the same question.

A bang on the door prevented further discussion.

Bitter Olof signalled to Little Thom. ‘Jhen, go and fetch yourself a meal, lad.’ He turned to Thom. ‘Quick, hide the boy behind you.’ Little Thom frowned but did as he was asked. ‘Not a word, Lute,’ said Bitter Olof. ‘Pass this test and you have my help. Come!’ the dwarf called as Jhen left.

‘This will be Bran,’ Little Thom whispered to Lute hidden behind his huge bulk and in the shadows. He was invisible to anyone coming into the chamber. Peeking beneath his protector’s great arm he watched the door open and in breezed a man that struck Lute to be almost as old as his father.

He banged off the rain from his cloak, stomped his boots for good measure, grumbling the whole time.

‘Hello, Bran,’ the dwarf said good-naturedly. Bitter Olof liked this fellow, Lute decided.

‘Ah, my aching joints. I’m getting too old for this, Olof!’

‘Nonsense,’ the dwarf replied. ‘No-one spies as well as you do. We are blind without you, Bran.’

‘Hah!’ the man grumbled again. ‘What does a man have to do to get a cup of something warming in his belly on a cold night like tonight?’

‘He just has to ask,’ the dwarf replied, signalling to the warmed, spiced ale that sat in a jug near Olof’s fire. ‘Help yourself.’

Bran sidestepped the mess on the floor, not even flinching at it, and poured himself a large cup of the ale.

‘What news from the capital?’ Bitter Olof asked again, his tone deliberately casual.

‘All grave, my friend,’ Bran said, wiping away the rain from his whiskery beard as he found a seat and sat down before draining the cup in a single draught. ‘Ah, that’s good.’

Lute’s ears pricked up but he moved deeper into the shadows of the cave. He had a deep sense of foreboding. There was
something about Bran that told him he didn’t want to hear any of the news coming out of this spy’s mouth.

‘Tell us, Bran,’ Bitter Olof finally said.

‘King Rodin is dead,’ he said bluntly.

Lute froze in the background.

‘Do we have proof?’ Bitter Olof asked quickly, no doubt trying to stop Lute leaping in.

‘I’ve seen his body. It was lying in state in the Royal Chapel.’ He held up a hand. ‘Don’t even ask. I have my ways.’

Lute felt as though all his blood had drained into his feet. He could no longer move, couldn’t speak either; he hoped this was a nightmare he would wake from in a moment. He leaned against Little Thom’s solid bulk.

‘The Queen?’ the dwarf prompted.

‘She was keeping a mourning vigil. I noticed something strange, though.’

‘What?’

‘She was surrounded by soldiers.’

‘Is that unusual? They were protecting the King’s body, presumably.’

‘No, Olof. They faced inwards, not outwards. They were watching her, not guarding the corpse of their King. And I’ll tell you something else that my big nose sniffs at and assures me smells bad.’

‘Go on,’ the dwarf said.

‘They aren’t the King’s army.’

‘What?’

‘They look like the regular army—I mean they wear the uniform of the royal guard—but my instincts tell me they’re hired. There’s no pride in that uniform and their accents are strange. I reckon they’re mercenaries who are guarding the Queen for some reason…and not in a good way.’

Lute was fighting back the anger, the bile, the tears, all at once but he still found himself rooted to the spot. He was sure his blood had turned to ice listening to Bran discuss his mother.

Olof was nodding. ‘Very strange. Tell me, Bran, what of the Crown Prince?’

At this Bran shook his head. ‘Nowhere to be seen. And that doesn’t make sense either. He’s young, yes, but he’s not an infant. For the sake of the Florians—for the whole realm in fact—you’d think we’d have seen the boy. He should have been grieving by his mother’s side. He should have been the one to take the public outpouring of sympathy over the King’s death at the palace balcony on behalf of his mother if she were too sad to face it. There’s more. Rumours abound that the boy was killed in a riding accident. Strange how it’s all happened in the same day. I smell deceit somewhere.’

‘So who did?’

‘Did what?’ Bran asked.

Bitter Olof remained patient. ‘Who met the people on the balcony? Who accepted their grief?’

‘Duke Janko did.’

On hearing this, Lute let out a strangled cry that sounded more like a growl, his anger overwhelming whatever had made him become so still and drained of energy, and he leaped forwards, out of the shadows. Quick as a blink, Little Thom, for all his bulk, had grabbed him from behind. Lute realised that Thom must have thought he was going to hurt the dwarf; he found his hands pinned behind his back.

‘Who’s behind Little Thom?’ Bran queried.

‘No-one important, not yet,’ Bitter Olof soothed. ‘Trust me, Bran. Tell me everything first. Do you remember Pilo?’

Bran smirked. ‘Who could forget him?’

‘The boy is a friend of Pilo,’ Bitter Olof said, revealing little.

Bran nodded. ‘Then I have bad news for him. There is a price on Pilo’s head, according to the rumours around the city.’

Lute felt sick.

‘What do you know?’ the dwarf prompted.

‘Very little,’ Bran admitted. ‘Although it’s all very strange. The word on the street is that this horse-riding accident that may or may not have claimed the life of the Prince is being blamed on
Pilo—apparently this is coming from the Duke’s people—but I don’t know a better horseman than Pilo, do you?’

Bitter Olof shook his head.

‘I left before any formal announcement but our final runner, Liam, should have news. We think the Duke will offer King Rodin’s body to lie in state at the cathedral and confirm Crown Prince Lute’s death. It’s too strange and far too coincidental for my big nose,’ Bran continued, ‘Pilo was the Prince’s closest companion. If something happened to his charge, Pilo would have been at his side until they put the boy’s body in the ground. And yet Pilo has disappeared. And after greasing the palm of one of the stablehands I’ve learned that his prized stallion is nowhere to be found.’

‘That’s because it’s here,’ Little Thom chipped in.

‘Here?’ Bran repeated, surprised. ‘According to my sources he was riding it today, so why and how would it be here?’

Lute stepped to the side but his face was still hidden by the shadows in the dimly candlelit cave. ‘I brought it, I am—’ Lute said from behind Little Thom.

‘Wait!’ Bitter Olof interrupted. ‘Bran. Tell me what you know of Prince Lute.’

Bran shrugged. ‘Thirteen summers, dark-haired, very dark eyes. Used to be sickly, a fragile sort, but since Pilo took on such a close role alongside the Prince, the boy has matured very noticeably. He is popular and people say he emulates the best of both his parents. He should make a fine king one day.’

‘And yet,’ Bitter Olof said, a wicked glint in his eye, ‘he doesn’t seem to look at all like his parents, according to your description. I have only seen them once but nevertheless…’ His voice trailed off.

Bran blew his cheeks out as he considered this pointed remark. ‘Well, you’re right, Olof. Rumours persist that he is not of the royal blood.’

‘How dare you!’ Lute said, emerging fully from the shadows and advancing angrily as Bran stood up, alarmed. The man’s face visibly drained from ruddy to almost grey as he realised who was
in the room with him. Despite his shock, Bran still had the presence of mind to go down on one knee.

‘Crown Prince Lute. Your majesty.’

Bitter Olof was off his chair in a blink. ‘This is him? Is this really Prince Lute?’

Bran nodded. ‘Of course. I’ve seen him many times. What is he doing here?’

Bitter Olof turned to Lute, his small eyes blazing with intrigue. ‘Well, your majesty,’ he said, loading the title with scorn, ‘now you are going to tell us everything.’

The lock turned with only the barest squeak and, with Tess gently hushing an eager Elph and Helys, Griff and Davren led the way out of the cage. Rix soon ran ahead, delighting in his freedom. Helys was too weak to walk so Griff picked her up and, cradling her in his arms, they tiptoed soundlessly from the camp.

In the copse they all breathed again, their whispers blending with the sound of the crickets and the odd haunting hoot from an owl.

‘So far so good,’ Tess whispered, still anxious. ‘And I think Helys looks a bit pink, don’t you?’

Griff nodded even though he could barely see a change—not in this light.

‘Davren says it’s because you’re holding her. She’s very fond of you.’

Griff grinned in the moonlight. ‘I’ll hold her all night if it means she’ll blaze orange again soon.’

‘Where are we going?’ Tess asked.

‘We’re going to follow the forest line. We need it for cover and then when Tyren sends his people after us—and he will, Tess—the creatures will at least know how to use the forest to hide.’

‘Follow the forest line to where?’ Tess asked.

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know yet. I have a feeling it’s to Floris but—’

‘Floris!’ Tess hissed. ‘Are you mad? I’m not taking the creatures there.’

‘I’m not suggesting you will. That’s the direction I sense we are headed in. Don’t worry, I won’t put you or them in danger.’

She pinned him with a stare. ‘You’ve said that to me once before and yet here I am off on some strange journey that definitely means danger for all of us. Is Floris where the Whisperer is?’

‘I don’t know, Tess,’ Griff said, sighing. ‘I really don’t. But I’m going to talk to him soon, once I can clear my head of all of its worry. Let’s just put some distance between us and the Travelling Show tonight, then we’ll make plans, alright?’

Davren trotted up to Griff and put a hand on his shoulder, a finger to his own lips.

‘Someone’s coming!’ Tess whispered, her face frozen in fear.

‘Go!’ Griff mouthed and pointed. No-one moved. ‘Davren, lead them. Go!’

Tess turned back, worried. ‘What about you?’

‘I need to see we’re not being followed. I’ll keep Helys. Run, Tess, but silently.’ He flicked a hand, didn’t look at her, his eyes riveted on the person approaching. He had no idea who it was. All he did know was that it wasn’t Tyren, which was a small measure of comfort. He would know that man’s silhouette anywhere.

He sensed Tess’s departure and then deliberately let down the shield in his mind and instantly felt a barrage of thoughts. Not as many as he’d anticipated but he realised that was because it was the small hours of the morning. Most people were asleep and dreaming. Mercifully he was not subjected to thoughts from their dreams, only those when they were awake.

He began to search through the messages pummelling his mind until he found him. It was Mad Dog Merl. Of course, Griff thought, looking up and noticing it was almost a full moon. The wolf was rising. Mad Dog Merl was one of their strangest performers—if you could call him a performer. Normally he was brought out onto the stage caged and chained. Each full
moon triggered a horrible change in what was otherwise a mellow young man. He became enraged, dangerous to everyone, including himself. The show folk had got used to the routine of each full moon, helping Mad Dog Merl to shackle himself and prepare for the onslaught that would last for a few days while he raged and howled as a wolf might. Left uncaged he would attack people. Griff had heard that Merl had killed a donkey once when the show folk had not made it in time with the chains. Now Master Tyren kept a very close watch on the tides calendar and knew precisely when to make a move. It was probably going to happen in the morning but the fact that Mad Dog Merl was moving around at this time, and in that twitchy, almost drunken manner, suggested to Griff that the rising was on its way. He was not dangerous, not yet, but it was so close it was not worth taking a risk and if he moved now he couldn’t be sure that he was safe.

He remained still in the copse, willing the monster that lurked inside Mad Dog Merl not to rise fully for a few more hours.

Merl was almost upon him. He would walk into him if Griff didn’t say something.

Griff took a step, clutching Helys tight and, holding his breath, gave a tight grin to the young man, who stopped abruptly before him. ‘Er, hello Merl.’ He tried to make it sound as casual and friendly as possible.

‘Is that you, Griff?’ Merl slurred.

The wolf was coming, Griff could almost smell it but he could also hear the deranged thoughts in Merl’s mind warring with all the gentle, kind thoughts that normally marked this man.

‘Yes.’ He froze to see Merl lick his lips at the sight of Helys, who flashed red momentarily. Fear. She knew. ‘Er, are you alright?’ he tried.

‘It’s happening,’ he groaned. ‘We’re late.’

There was no point in pretending any longer. ‘We’re not too late, Merl. We can get you back to the wagon and do what we have to do right now. I’ll help. Come on.’

Merl pushed his hand away. ‘No!’ he snarled. Then relaxed. ‘Sorry, Griff.’

Griff nodded. This felt dangerous. The wolf thoughts were dark and angry. He wanted to eat Helys.

‘That califa looks tasty.’

‘Not as tasty as the hunk of ox I could fetch you right now, Merl. Shall we go and find it? I know where the food is stored. You can eat everything.’

‘I think I want some califa tonight. Perhaps even some sagar,’ he said, his voice sly.

‘I can’t let you do that. Surely you wouldn’t hurt me would you, Merl?’

‘I don’t want to,’ he slurred. ‘You know how it is.’

Griff nodded, looked around nervously.

‘You might as well give her to me,’ Merl said, his mouth salivating, ‘Or you may get hurt when I have to take her from you.’

‘I can’t, Merl,’ Griff repeated, his voice filled with fear but nonetheless firm. ‘She’s my friend and I’m her protector. I can’t let you touch her. She’s small and helpless and truly not much of a meal.’

‘But she’s tasty and here, and I’m famished.’ Merl’s voice seemed to have dropped an octave lower. There was cunning in his body language now. Suddenly Griff felt Merl was huge as well as menacing. He was still slow, though, and Griff could hear that his thoughts remained muddled. The wolf had not yet fully emerged.

‘You’ll have to get past me then, Merl, because I’m not giving her to you.’ Griff pointed anxiously. ‘Merl, look! They’re after you!’ he yelled and as the young Man-dog turned, frowning and confused, Griff ran headlong in the opposite direction, gripping Helys tightly, who was pulsing red now.

He ran as hard as he could but soon enough heard the growl and lunging footsteps behind him. Merl was slow but he would be strong and Griff would be no match for him. He paused, unsure of whether to hide Helys, tell her to run on alone while he faced Merl or whether to hang onto her while he tried
reasoning again. He was just about to bend down and tell her to run for it when Merl blundered into the clearing.

‘That wasn’t a good idea to trick me,’ Merl snarled.

‘I had to do something,’ Griff said, desperately keen to keep the Man-dog talking while he strained to think of another diversion, something to buy him just a few more moments.

‘Now I’m going to take her!’ the Man-dog promised and then he howled to the moon. It sent a shiver of terror through Griff, who could feel Helys trembling in his arms and he hated feeling so helpless.

Just as Merl was lowering his head, his gaze narrowed and fixed on Helys, no doubt preparing to pounce and rip out both their throats, Griff felt the presence of someone new.

Next to him stood Davren. Taller than Merl and looking very strong, his muscles were outlined clearly in the moonlight and he was wearing a look of such loathing that Griff stepped back.

‘Davren—’ he began.

‘Let him be.’ It was Tess. ‘He refused to leave you. Now he’ll fight for you and Helys…for all of us.’

‘But this is Mad Dog Merl. The Man-dog is—’

‘No match for the centaur,’ Tess cut across his words. She sounded calm behind him. ‘Trust Davren, Griff. You have no idea how strong he is. He comes from a warrior-line, I know that much. He would fight to the death.’

‘I don’t want him to die for me!’

‘He has just told me he won’t have to.’

Griff watched confusion flit once again across Merl’s face.

‘Davren’s talking to him,’ Tess explained. ‘He can reach the animal side of this man. He’s suggesting that this meal is not worth pursuing.’

‘I can’t be sure that Merl is hearing him, though.’

‘No, that’s probably true, but Davren wants us to move now. He wants us to go.’

‘I won’t leave Davren.’

‘I thought you’d say that. Give me Helys.’

Griff did so.

‘I’m going to take the others. Davren tells me Merl wants to fight.’

‘And I was afraid you’d say that. Go, Tess.’

And then in a blur of snarls and fur and rage, before Griff could say another word, the Man-dog lunged at the centaur.

But Davren was fleet of foot on his four legs and danced out of the way, landing a blow with his fists that Griff was sure must have made Merl see stars. Without giving the Man-dog a chance to recover, Davren reared up and bashed him in the chest with his front hooves.

Merl doubled over but though hurt he was not finished yet. He ran at Davren, still bent over, and tried to ram the centaur. He made heavy contact but Davren’s fists were large and as hard as stones and they boxed Merl so hard that the Man-dog fell to his knees.

Griff hated to watch the beating. He had always liked gentle Merl but Mad Dog Merl was capable of harming anyone and had no ability, it seemed, to reason through his moon-calling. He watched with horrified fascination as Davren turned and then, using one back leg, kicked viciously and precisely at Merl’s large chin. As soon as he connected, the Man-dog went down—for the last time—and lay heavily, unconscious.

Tess crept out. ‘He’s not dead,’ she reassured Griff, who was now kneeling beside Merl looking appalled.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

‘Davren is. He was careful to just hit him in the right spot to knock him out. He’ll sleep for a while I suspect and wake with a fearful headache.’

‘By which time, hopefully, Tyren will have found him and secured him.’ Griff stood up from the prone Merl and regarded Davren. ‘You’re magnificent,’ he said, helplessly.

Davren smiled gently.

The crickets began to sing again. ‘We have to go,’ Griff said. ‘I hate leaving him here but he’s strong and fit, and breathing properly.’

Tess looked up. ‘It will be dawn in about two hours, I reckon.’

‘How do you know?’

She sighed but there was pleasure in it. ‘I know the open skies, I know how the forest feels at all times of the day or night. We should travel as as far as we can while we still have the cover of darkness. And you need to know I brought only some bread and a small flask of water.’

‘We’ll be fine. Let’s go. Tell the creatures we have to move as fast as possible.’

‘Let’s strap Helys to Davren’s back. He doesn’t mind. She’s as light as a feather anyway. Elph is generally the slowest but if he knows what we’re up against he’ll move surprisingly swiftly.’

‘Go ahead: that’s a good idea. And Rix is safe?’ he said, pointing at the veercat high in the trees.

She smiled. ‘He’s loving being free. Yes, he’s safe. He’ll glide from now on probably—he won’t want to touch the ground for fear of being trapped.’

‘Who could blame him,’ Griff muttered and then he froze.

How dare you!
Griff heard in his mind.

He knew it was the Whisperer and instantly raised his shields to every other sound so that he was a receptacle only for this boy, wherever he was. He wasn’t going to lose him this time, no matter what. He had never done this before but somehow he understood that he must try, and equally startling was the knowledge that he seemed to know how. The Whisperer’s trace was there and Griff realised all he had to do was follow it. And so, as though reeling in thread, Griff wound in the Whisperer’s trace until he felt like he’d arrived at a point where the boy was near him.

He was blind and deaf, though, to everything but this strange sort of silver void he was suddenly standing in. He could no longer see the woodland or Tess. His pulse quickened. Was he dying?

With relief he noticed a soft blaze of colour glow momentarily on the fringe of his mind. It reassured him that he wasn’t dying, nor was he blinded in the traditional sense but there was actually just nothing to see. The sense of deafness passed the moment he heard a familiar voice.

Don’t be alarmed, Griff, it’s Davren.

What…what’s happened
?

I can’t say for sure but you seem to have tapped into a vein of magic that has brought us into your mind. We are in a new plane, one I don’t understand but have heard about.

You’ll have to explain that.

Although Griff couldn’t see Davren, he was sure he could sense him smiling.
I recall my grandfather talking about this once. If I’m right it’s called the Silvering.

You seem very knowledgeable for a young centaur.

Griff heard a sigh.
By centaur standards I am still very young, Griff. But in comparison to you or Tess, I’m really quite old.

That made sense to Griff because Davren seemed to speak with maturity, even though he had been led to believe by what Tess had said that Davren was almost childlike. It was reassuring to know he was in the company of someone with knowledge for he was now entering pathways he had no understanding of and it was unnerving.
Alright. So what happens in the Silvering
?
I should tell you, now that you mention it, that whenever I’m hearing thoughts, my mind is rimmed by a sort of sparkling quality. It’s hard to explain.

That’s interesting.
Davren frowned.
You know it might be that our magics are connected. It’s not easy to explain the Silvering but let me try.

According to my grandfather it is a place in the mind that is locked away to most people. Very few can find it and for most, if they stumble across it, they don’t recognise it, rarely have any inkling of how to use it, or even how to find it again.