Waterborne Exile (30 page)

Drelena said nothing. After a moment he lowered his head and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Drelena returned to the window, with its dancing sunlight and shrieking gulls. A dull pain had begun to nag at her temples. She opened the window once more, to breathe the outside air, to have one last taste of freedom. A bride ought not feel like this on her wedding day.

Col had been unhelpful from the outset, and seemed determined to continue that way. “What do you want, my lady? There are no amulets I can give you, no incantations to ward off the evil that stalks you. That evil is as old as time itself. All I can do is teach you how to build your strength – and even then that is something you must do for yourself. That strength is what you need to keep the evil at bay.”

“And what of my child?”

“It is for you to do whatever you are able to protect it.”

Alwenna left the campfire then. A lifetime of other people telling her what she ought to do had in no way prepared her for this. If anyone understood what was going on they were not prepared to share that understanding with her. There may have been a perfectly good reason for that, of course.

She’d made a mistake coming here; Jenna’s confidence these people might help had been misplaced. She herself, in her determination to leave Scarrow’s Deep, had placed too much reliance on the hope they’d be able to help her.

She’d been convinced she’d find peace in these mountains, far removed from the places her various misadventures had taken place. She’d found no such thing.

Alwenna made her way over to the tiny misfit stream that wandered along the floor of the valley. If no one would advise her on what she should do for the best, she had to fall back on her own resources. She knelt by the water’s edge, movements awkward with her increasing waist and not helped by the dull ache in her lower back. She sank her hands into the water. It was chill with the hint of ice from the higher mountains, more chill than the night air in this place. She wondered if it might have been better to wait for daylight, then she pitched forward into a stifling darkness. She was lying in bed, staring up at the canopy, or at the place where the canopy would be if it were not so dark she could not see it. At her side was the rhythmic breathing of her new husband, sunk in a deep sleep. Taking care to make no noise, she pushed back the covers and set her feet on the floor. The polished floorboards were cool against the soles of her feet. She pushed back the drapery surrounding the bed and found moonlight illuminating the room.

She padded across to the window and eased the casement open, drawing in a lungful of fresh air. This would be it, to the end of her days. She could count herself fortunate she’d known something better for a few precious weeks. But would that be enough to sustain her through the years ahead?

An owl screeched nearby. Not a seagull, but every bit as free and alive…

Alwenna pulled away. She was not here to intrude upon such personal pain. But in pulling away she became somehow dislocated, and drifted into a place of deeper darkness where she fell and fell, endlessly. Fell down a chasm a thousand times deeper than the gorge beneath Highkell citadel, towards a place no light could reach, a place where no light had shone since the beginning of time. Towards a place where her arrival was anticipated… This had been it all along: this was what she was meant to do.

“No, my lady, do not go further. You will find nothing but pain there, pain and sorrow.” The voice was familiar, she ought to recognise it. “Return to us, for your own sake and your child’s sake. And if that is not enough, return for me.”

She knew that voice.

Alwenna dropped into awareness with a start, shaken loose from her vision of falling. Her hands were chilled, sunk beyond her wrists in the stream. She pushed herself upright, shaking the water from her hands and shivering, but whether that was from the chill of the water, or from the shock of her descent into darkness she did not know. She sat back on the rocky ground. Above the sheer sides of the valley the night sky was clear and the stars shone as brightly as ever. The Hunter was there, watching over their fire.

The Hunter was not the only one watching. She twisted round. Col leant against a boulder, arms folded, shoulders slouched.

“Well, my lady, what did you find?” He strolled over to where she sat. For all his unconcerned attitude, he was watchful.

“Do you not know already?”

Col shrugged.

“I found the king’s new bride who is too far from home and her loved ones. And I found a place of darkness such as I have never known before.”

“A place of darkness? You found it and returned?”

“I was called back.” Should she tell him or could he already guess? “By one I believed dead.”

Col nodded. “And what will you do now, my lady?”

She pushed herself to her feet, ungainly. Col didn’t offer to help. Like as not he knew she’d have refused it. “That is a good question.” She dusted dirt and grit from her hands. “I will do what I must.”

At the top table Vasic sat next to his new bride. He was plying her with tasty morsels from the dishes set before them. She smiled prettily, and laughed at his jokes, but her eyes were empty. All this the priestess ascertained through lowered lids as she watched them covertly. Even so, for the time being the king seemed well enough pleased with the Lady Drelena.

Durstan, who had been watching the happy couple in a less discreet manner, drained his wine goblet, grimacing as he swallowed the coarse vintage. He stood up, rocking the bench seat. For a moment it seemed as if it must overbalance and the priestess had to catch hold of the table.

“You, see you stay here in case the king looks for you. Mind you don’t go until he’s left the table.”

She nodded.

Durstan nudged Weaver’s shoulder. “And you keep an eye on things. Your duty is to keep those favoured by the Goddess safe.”

“Yes, sire.”

The soldier was answering questions with less hesitation now. She eyed Weaver thoughtfully as Durstan hobbled away.

He glanced her way, one eyebrow raised in question.

She shrugged. “He still thinks I’ll learn something important. The king isn’t interested in talking to me.”

“You should tell him.”

“No. He won’t listen.” More to the point, it would be unwise: if Durstan once got the notion she could no longer be useful her prospects would be bleak.

The soldier looked up. “He watches you, you know. When he thinks no one’s looking.”

She glanced up at the top table. Vasic was still engrossed with his bride. “Who? The king?”

Weaver shook his head. “No. The prelate.”

She curled her lip in scorn.

“Have a care. His kind don’t forgive easily, and never forget.”

“What have I done that he must forgive?”

“Nothing, yet. Just have a care.”

“Why bother to tell me that? Would you play games with me?”

“We help one another, remember?”

“Durstan despises me since I… failed in my task.” The lie came uneasily to her lips, she suspected the soldier was weighing her words carefully.

“If he despises you, it is because he blames you for his own weakness. I will not always be able to watch your back.”

“You are bound to me.”

“Only as long as Durstan wills it so.” The soldier picked up his tankard and said no more. He seemed to slide back into the vacuous state of mind she had become accustomed to seeing. It was almost as if he assumed it like armour. Was it possible he could do that at will, to deflect suspicion? She would have to be more careful what she said in his presence in future.

Beyond the soldier, at the high table, Vasic continued to converse with his bride. She felt suddenly sick and pushed herself to her feet. “Wait here for me.”

Weaver looked up, then nodded.

She hurried away to the garderobe.

The girl had scarcely vanished from sight before a tall man came up and sat next to Weaver.

“Well met, my friend.” The newcomer held out a hand in greeting.

Weaver knew the face, the aquiline nose, the expression at once curious and calculating. After a moment he reached out and they shook hands. The newcomer’s grip was firm. He knew him, but summoning the recollection was almost too great an effort…

“When last we met you shook no one’s hand, freemerchant.” The name followed an instant later.

“You know me then?”

“I know you. Marten. Even shorn of your hair, I know you.” The summer palace. Sunlight slanting in at the window where a moment before…

Marten grimaced. “That’s a tale I might hope to tell you one day, but we do not have much time.

Weaver forced himself to concentrate on Marten’s words. There had been smoke, so much smoke… Even the thought of it was enough to bring an insistent tickle to his lungs. Weaver cleared his throat. “No, we do not have much time.” The freemerchant’s clothing was far more restrained than Weaver was used to seeing him wear.

Marten picked up a morsel from one of the serving plates. “The grey brethren own you now?”

“They healed me, after a fashion. But first they killed me.” He’d never found the words for it until now, but once he’d spoken them, he knew it was true. He pushed the awareness away; it was no help to him, not in this place.

“So they do own you?” The freemerchant studied him with that familiar look.

The man would spill his innards just to see what colour they were. This was not a new thought. “No man owns me.”

Marten nodded. “That I can believe, my friend. But what of the priestess?”

Weaver shook his head. “I am not hers to command.”

“Unless someone else is looking on?”

Weaver nodded slowly. “You ask many questions, freemerchant, but I have one for you: where is the lady?” He could see her in his mind’s eye, as clearly as if she stood before him. Every detail of her face familiar, yet still her name eluded him.

Marten raised one eyebrow. “I could ask you to be more precise.”

“You know who I mean.” Her name was right there, at the edge of his consciousness.

“She is safe – far from Vasic’s reach.”

“And is she well?”

“She is indeed well.”

From the corner of his eye, Weaver saw the door open as the priestess returned. He inclined his head to Marten who stood, briefly setting one hand on Weaver’s shoulder.

“We will speak again, my friend. It will be like old times.”

The girl took her seat, glancing at Marten’s retreating back. “Who was that?”

Weaver shrugged. “Some drunk.”

“I’ve seen his face before.”

“He said he knew me of old.” Weaver shrugged again. “If that is so, I do not know him.”

The girl looked up to the top table, rubbing her forearm thoughtfully, even though the tattoo had healed over completely.

Vasic and the Lady Drelena were leaving. The king made much of taking his lady by the hand. She thanked him with a smile and they crossed the dais towards the door leading to their private chambers. She looked neither to right nor to left, nor at her husband.

The priestess turned her pale gaze to Weaver. “You would not lie to me, would you, Pius?”

“No, Lady Miria, I would not.” He nodded his head towards the door where the king and his lady had now vanished. “Are we done here?”

“I told you not to call me that.” Her mouth tightened with disapproval. “My name is Ilsa, and that is how you will address me. We are done here.”

Weaver drained his tankard of ale. It was poor stuff… another memory stirred. Someone long ago had complained about the ale, and they’d argued over what it was to be a true soldier… The rest of the scene remained elusive. And, as ever, he was aware of the priestess’s scrutiny, as if she sought to divine his thoughts. She should have a care: she’d learn nothing good about herself from him.

Rekhart was drunk even though it was barely past sunset. He was hunched over his tankard in the back room of the
Crown
, not senseless, but belligerent.

Jervin eyed him with distaste as he scraped his chair back from the table where they had been eating. “Let’s leave him to it. I’ll show you some of the new pieces I have for my collection.”

Drew pushed back his chair. The barman glowered over at their table. “We can’t do that. They’ll throw him out on the street, like they did with that merchant the other night.”

“Best place for him, if you ask me. He’s no use to us like that.”

“No, but… I’ll get him a kopamid. I’ll follow you up when he’s sobered up a bit. He’s not so far gone.”

“You’re too soft on him.”

“He’s my friend. If I won’t help him, who will?”

Jervin shrugged. “He should have thought of that before he drank so much.”

“He’s troubled.”

“No, Drew, he’s trouble. I should never have taken him on again after he kicked up last time.”

“You never did tell me what that was about.”

“Nor shall I. Mop his fevered brow if you must. I can tell you now you’re wasting your time.”

“Why? What do you mean?”

“He’s given up. You can see it in his eyes: got no respect for himself any more.”

“He’s a bit down, that’s all.”

“If you think you’re such a good friend, why doesn’t he confide in you?” Jervin leaned closer. “Because you’re the reason, that’s why. He knows he only got his job back because you begged a favour from me. There’s few men can live with themselves knowing they’re a charity case, and he’s not one of them.”

Drew was taken aback. He’d not seen it like that before, but Jervin’s words rang true. “Then that’s all the more reason for me to help now.”

Jervin shook his head. “You’ll see. He won’t thank you for it.” He strode off through the door that led to the guest rooms.

Drew ordered kopamid and sat down opposite Rekhart, pouring it into the beakers. “Here, drink some of this. You’ll feel better.” He slid the beaker over to Rekhart.

Rekhart looked up. “Gone, has he?”

“Jervin? Yes.”

“Dunno why you put up with him.”

Drew was taken aback by the morose remark. “He’s always dealt fairly with me.”