“A safe haven for which I am most grateful.” She resisted the temptation to cast a meaningful glance around their meagre lodgings. “And I’m sure Weaver is especially appreciative of your hospitality this morning.”
Weaver nodded. “It is as the lady says, father. But with all the travellers who pass through Vorrahan, this lack of news from the east worries me. I am loath to make decisions founded on nothing more substantial than Gwydion’s ramblings.”
“Indeed, it is troubling. But what decisions are to be made? The Lady Alwenna is safe here. You may leave her in our care with a clear conscience; we will ensure she wants for nothing.”
Weaver didn’t reply. Instead he turned to remove the kettle from the heat, then set about brewing the aromatic kopamid.
Alwenna’s stomach clenched at the memory of the scene in the forest when she’d last tasted the spiced drink, but she managed to control her nausea. It was no longer as severe as before. She was aware of a glance from Weaver as he joined them at the table. So, she suspected, was Father Garrad. The priest missed nothing: he was weighing every look, every smile between them. Did he suspect a liaison between them? Or was he simply interested in his visitors? Gwydion had not trusted the man, but they’d been at odds for many years, and the master seer’s judgement had been questionable at best. Weaver had called him a crazy old man and now she was inclined to agree.
Garrad took up the drink Weaver set before him. “Have you no other trade than the sword, Weaver? Something you may work at here on Vorrahan?”
“I’m the son of a ploughman, father. Blades are all I know.”
“We have little use for ploughs here, not when we can sell wool to meet most of our needs. You must be resourceful enough to turn your hand to other skills, elsewise you would not have been made King’s Man.”
“Tresilian and I chanced to be side by side in battle one day, that is all. A happy chance for me. I’d never been so well clothed or fed before that day.”
Garrad sipped his drink. “Lady Alwenna, he does himself an injustice. I suggest you don’t believe a word he says.” The priest did not remain long after that. He took his leave of them, still smiling, leaving most of his drink untouched.
After the door had closed behind their visitor, Alwenna voiced the thought uppermost in her mind. “All those questions – what was he after?”
“To hide his purpose in coming here, I imagine.” Weaver swallowed a mouthful of his drink. “And that purpose – I think – was to find out why I was drowning my sorrows last night. I let you down badly there, my lady. It won’t happen again.”
She shrugged off the apology. “Then he’s learned nothing he didn’t already know.”
“My lady, I think he sees our situation more clearly than we do ourselves.” Weaver twisted the earthenware beaker in his hands.
“Indeed? What do you imagine he sees?”
“Two people with more than enough time on their hands to get up to no good. And that gives us all the more reason to be wary.”
“That’s nonsense.”
“I’m serious, my lady. I suspect where you are concerned he hopes if I’m given enough rope I’ll hang myself and save him the trouble of building a scaffold.”
“Surely not?”
“It would be no great challenge to find a servant to act as chaperone. Men such as Garrad do nothing without a reason. I shan’t oblige him, have no fear. There’s too much at stake.”
Alwenna felt her face redden. “You presume a great deal, Weaver.”
“Is it not better to speak plainly about the risks we face?”
He was right, of course. “Ought we remain here if Father Garrad intends to play cat-and-mouse games with us?”
“I can’t drag you round the country indefinitely, not in your condition. It wouldn’t be right.” Weaver hesitated. “But I’ll admit I’d feel easier knowing the news from Highkell. I suspect Garrad is not being entirely frank about that. Ferries are coming and going across the sound several times a day.”
“But local farmers bringing tithes to the brethren, what would they know of war so far from their own fields?”
“More than Father Garrad is telling us: strangers passing through by night, soldiers on scouting missions, dozens of tiny things have meaning. Even a foolish man-at-arms wasting his pay on ale in the brewhouse.” Weaver stood up. “Forgive me for inflicting myself on you in this condition, my lady. It’s high time I rendered myself presentable.” He took up the empty log basket and left Alwenna with her thoughts.
Could Tresilian have been mistaken in entrusting her safety to Father Garrad? It had been Tresilian who insisted she should seek out Gwydion in the first place. Had that been wise? And what had become of her husband: should she be grieving for him? She wouldn’t. Not until rumour confirmed her sight. Until then she could hope she’d been mistaken; that Gwydion had misled her at every turn; that her fears for Wynne were nothing more than nightmares. And until then she could keep the burden of unwanted knowledge Gwydion had bestowed on her in check. If once she believed her sight told her the truth, then so much more would follow in its wake.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Gwydion’s burial took place at sunrise on the third day after his death, according to tradition. The cemetery had been sited on the wind-scoured slope to the north of the precinct, where few trees grew to interrupt the view east over the sound to the mainland.
Alwenna felt lightheaded as she watched the rough coffin being lowered into the ground. At times the sense her mind was too full became overpowering. This was one of those times, made worse by a deep unease: funerals changed things. A dozen years had passed since she stood with Wynne on the battlements at Highkell, watching her parents’ coffins being lowered into the ground. Eight-year-old girls didn’t belong at the graveside, however tragic the circumstances. She and Tresilian had hidden at the foot of the stairs afterwards, listening to the grown-ups deciding her future. Their future.
And later another ceremony honouring Tresilian’s father, after he’d fallen in battle in The Marches. Tresilian had been overburdened with grief. He’d insisted she attend at his side. And she’d set her hand on his arm, trying to ease some of his pain and understood then, finally, why she had to agree to their marriage. The state was fragile, but between them they could strengthen it.
Now the master seer was committed to the ground, leaving her his gift: a cacophony of half-seen, impossible-to-understand fragments. Even when she was awake unfamiliar voices tugged at the back of her mind, half-resolved images ghosted through her consciousness, crowding in if she let her attention wander. A thousand open graves gaped before her. Some contained rudimentary coffins, others corpses wrapped only in winding sheets. Some were pits into which fallen soldiers were flung without ceremony, without rites to ease their passing. So many fallen, taking countless secrets with them…
Alwenna shook her head to dispel the flood of unwelcome images. Once more she was on the hillside above the precinct with Garrad intoning rites over Gwydion’s coffin. His words of regret were hollow. He was glad the seer was gone. Did he know of the seer’s gift to her? She thought not. According to Drew the two priests who had served Gwydion had taken a vow of silence to mark their respect. A convenient way to sidestep Garrad’s questioning, without doubt. And if they were not about to tell Garrad of Gwydion’s so-called gift to her, she assuredly would not.
After the ceremony was complete she turned away from the graveside to find Weaver waiting nearby, dour as ever. He’d been careful to spend little time in her company since Garrad’s morning visit. She could understand it, but nevertheless it hurt. Weaver was the last thread connecting her to her old life. And her sight told her he was about to leave.
Weaver walked over to join her. “I spoke to Father Garrad this morning. He agrees I should find out what’s happening at Highkell.”
That much was no surprise. “When will you leave?” Again, that rush of unease. Funerals changed things. Ought she stop him?
Weaver shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Today.”
So soon. “Are you sure it is wise?”
“Garrad has found a maidservant to assist you. There’s no need for me to stay any longer.” He glanced at her, then lowered his eyes.
He didn’t mean to come back. “So, you will return to Highkell?”
“That depends what I learn. I’ll send word as soon as I have news.”
They were still within earshot of the other mourners. He was deliberately giving her this news with others about. Perhaps he didn’t trust himself. Or perhaps he didn’t trust her.
“Will you walk with me for a minute or two?”
“Of course, my lady.”
They set off along the path back towards the precinct. Weaver didn’t offer her his arm. He was doing his best to be correct, and had been ever since he’d sobered up.
“Don’t worry, I shan’t attempt to talk you out of leaving.”
“It is for the best, my lady.”
“Undoubtedly.” She almost believed it. “You say you discussed it with Father Garrad. Have you some reason to be more kindly disposed towards him now?”
“He hasn’t bought me, if that’s what you’re asking.” Weaver’s tone was clipped.
She stopped in her tracks. Did that mean Garrad had tried to bribe the King’s Man? “I’d never believe that of you.”
“You should trust no one. Every man has his price.”
“I learned that long ago. And I think I know yours.” She ventured a smile.
He stepped back half a pace. “I must catch the tide, my lady. I cannot play at riddles with you all day.”
She shrugged: a courtly gesture of indifference, fake to the core. “Before you leave I would know your opinion. Ought I continue to be guarded in what I tell Father Garrad?”
“Yes, my lady. Perhaps I should have said: trust no one, particularly the good father.”
“Yet you still sought his advice on leaving?”
“My road will be easier if he believes I trust him.”
How foolish of her not to guess that. She began walking again. Weaver fell into step beside her as they climbed the slope leading towards the Holy Well, matching his pace to hers.
“Will you try to learn more about Father Garrad as you are seeking news, Weaver? And send me word if you learn anything of import?”
“I will, my lady. I swore to your husband I would protect you.”
They had reached the Holy Well. There, a sudden impulse seized her. “Swear it to me, Weaver, now, over this water. Swear what you once swore to Tresilian.” She dipped her hand in the small pool, and, cupping the water in her palm, held it out towards Weaver. After a moment’s hesitation he closed his own hand over it, clasping hers. “I will do everything in my power to keep you from harm, my lady. All my allegiance is yours.” His hand tightened over hers for a moment, then he released it.
If she begged him not to leave, would he stay? She could convince him. “Then nothing remains but for me to wish you a safe journey.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Weaver swept a courtly bow, then turned and strode away. Every sure stride took him further away from her.
Alwenna didn’t need the sight to know he would never return to Vorrahan.
“Well, Tresilian, is this what you planned when you sent me here?”
There was no answer but the mournful keening of seagulls.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Alwenna had no wish to remain in her lodgings while the silent maidservant went about her work. Instead she made her way to the precinct gates. At this time of the morning the cloister was bustling as the brethren went about their duties. Some had become friendly faces and smiled as she passed. Others averted their eyes. It was one of the latter who stepped forward as she was about to push open the wooden door.
“I beg your pardon, but Father Garrad has instructed that you must not venture out without a suitable escort.”
“I only want to walk up to the Holy Well.” She doubted he’d be swayed by learning of her need to seek out the tranquillity of the place. “I won’t even be out of sight of the gate.”
“I am sorry, my lady, Father Garrad’s instructions were precise. Please be so kind as to remain within the precinct walls.” The priest stepped in front of the doorway, even as she smiled and tried to sidestep him.
“Surely he cannot have meant–” Of course Garrad had meant this. But for him to play his hand so swiftly following Weaver’s departure was troubling. “There must be someone who could walk the short distance with me? We could gather a few herbs along the way, to make it worthwhile.”
The priest returned her smile with a steely gaze. “The brethren cannot neglect their duties on a whim. I shall enquire of Father Garrad when it might be convenient, if you wish?”
“You need not trouble him, brother.” She turned away from the gate, burning with embarrassment at once again being treated like some errant child. Father Garrad was approaching, smiling as ever.
“Good day to you, Lady Alwenna. I hope you are well.”
“Yes, I thank you, father. I hoped to walk up to the Holy Well, but your gatekeeper tells me you have left orders not to allow me outside.”
“My apologies. I meant to discuss this with you earlier but it slipped my mind.” He smiled, too smooth this time.
“Indeed?” She made no attempt to hide her displeasure.
Garrad’s smile did not falter. “Weaver and I agreed it would be best while he is away. None of our brethren here are as well qualified as he to protect you. It will be safer for you to remain within our walls until he has returned.”
Garrad’s face faded before her, as if seen through a veil of mist. The mist strengthened, altering colour as the sky darkened and took on an amber glow. Her view of the main precinct building was occluded by flames and smoke billowing from the roof. The cuprous taste of blood filled her mouth which was dry, so dry and parched…
“My lady? Are you unwell?” Garrad’s voice broke through the roar of flames and her surroundings twisted back into focus. The sky was light and clear, the air free of any hint of smoke.
Alwenna blinked. “I believe the sun is perhaps too hot to venture out onto the hillside in any event. I have a slight headache. I shall seek shade in the library instead.”