“The fact remains he knew your name. Are we compromised now? Less safe than we were?”
“The freemerchants are no threat. Nicholl gave you his name and claimed you as sister. You’d do well to remember that. They’ll take no side in Peninsular issues, but you can claim their protection.”
“Why would he do that? He’s a total stranger – and one I’m never likely to meet again.”
“My lady, your guess would be as good as mine. Like as not he wished to impress you. What man would not?” He urged his horse forward into a trot, putting an end to her questions as she sought to keep her balance. Weaver was one man who certainly had no interest in impressing her. It would have been unladylike to pull a face behind his back. And so it was. She found the tiny act of rebellion strangely satisfying.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The standing stones ran in a precise north-south line across the ridge. Some of the ancient stones had toppled, while others leaned at improbable angles. Weaver had ridden this road dozens of times, but the place had an unearthly air that always made him uneasy. Their path ran alongside the stones for a short distance before dipping south-west down the flank of the ridge, traversing the lower slopes of the mountain that rose ahead of them. Their horse jogged and sidled as they neared the stones and he brought it to a halt.
“What is this place?” Alwenna slid down from where she perched behind him, looking around, eyes wide, not unlike a slack-jawed peasant on first seeing a city.
“You sense it, then?” Of course she could, he’d expected as much. There was no way she could have failed to inherit at least some of her family’s witchery. In truth there were other roads he could have chosen, but this was something he’d wanted to see for himself. All his doubts might have been laid to rest if she’d ridden on by without a second look.
She turned slowly, studying the empty ridge. “Are we being watched?”
“Some say the realms of earth and sky meet here – and this is where our ancestors wait to guide the living when they need help.”
“I was told those were tales for children. I used to wish so hard they might be real… Here, I feel as if they could be.” She turned to Weaver. He realised he’d never seen her smile properly before, not an unguarded response like that.
Her smile faltered. “You don’t believe in it?”
“I believe what I can see for myself.” He dismounted. “If you look over to the west you’ll see our destination.”
Hills tumbled away before them, rising from a broad wooded plain punctuated with pockets of farmland and scattered settlements. Beyond that, in the distant haze, stretched a grey ribbon of apparently flat ground.
Alwenna raised one hand to shade her eyes. “Is that the sea?”
“That’s right. Vorrahan’s lost in the haze, but on a clear day you can see the precinct buildings.”
“I’m not sure I should believe you, not by your philosophy. Not until I can take up the water in my own hands.” She turned away before he could decide if she was teasing him. “There’s water nearby.” She walked back along the ridge, one hand still shading her eyes as she searched the sloping ground to the west. Her cloak billowed in the breeze, hinting at curved contours beneath the heavy fabric. She moved with an air of certainty, a vital being in a timeless landscape. She hadn’t been like this at court. Now it was his turn to gape like a slack-jawed peasant.
Alwenna turned downhill, moving with purpose to a clump of reeds. Weaver had an uneasy sense he ought to call her back. She knelt down and reached out, parting the reeds with her hands.
“I knew it. There’s a spring here.” She cupped her hands and scooped up a mouthful of water.
Everything stilled: the wind dropped, even the trilling of the skylarks ceased. And, without so much as a murmur, she slumped over onto the ground.
Alwenna and Tresilian sat at the foot of the cherry tree, their backs pressed against the trunk, fallen blossom littering the ground around them.
Tresilian flung a pebble against the orchard wall. “It doesn’t matter whether it’s a good crop or not, I won’t be here to pick them.”
Alwenna paused in sifting the petals between her fingers and twisted round to look at him. “Why not?”
“I’m to go to be taught by the brethren at Vorrahan. Father told me last week.”
“You didn’t tell me.” She scooped up another handful of the blossom.
“He said it didn’t concern you.”
“Because I’m a girl, or because I’m an orphan?” She threw away the blossom she held, glaring as it floated to the ground.
“He didn’t say.” Tresilian threw another stone after the first. It hit the wall with a sharp clack, dislodging a small shower of lime mortar. “There was something else too, but he told me not to say anything to you.”
“Oh.” The syllable was laden with indifference.
“I’ll tell you if you want.”
She shrugged. “I’m really not bothered either way.”
“It’s about you, so I think it’s only fair you should know.”
“You’d better tell me then.” She sketched a circle in the blossom with her finger. “I won’t tell, promise.”
“He says we’re to get married.”
“What?” She sat up and knelt where she could see him clearly. “That’s ridiculous.”
Tresilian frowned. “Not till we’re older, of course. I don’t think it’s such a bad idea. Better than marrying some foreigner who can’t speak a word of the language.”
“There’s more to it than that, though.”
“Like what?”
“Well, having children. And things like that. It’s complicated.” She fixed him with a serious gaze. “I don’t ever want to get married.”
“I told him you’d say that.” Tresilian picked up another pebble, twisting it about in his hand. “He said it’s our royal duty.”
“I don’t care if it is.” She sat back against the tree again. “I want to travel to new places, and sail across the sea.”
“We could do things like that once we’re married. It would be fun.”
“I still don’t want to.”
“I thought I was your best friend?”
“You are. But most people don’t marry their best friends.”
“We’re not most people. We’re royal.”
Alwenna gathered a handful of fallen blossom. “I never asked to be.” She set about shredding each petal, one by one.
A gust of wind lifted the fallen blossom from the ground and sent it spinning about her, faster and faster until she could see nothing beyond it.
“You were always such an angry girl.” Tresilian’s voice, the adult voice she was accustomed to hearing.
Alwenna spun round, trying to find him. She thought she saw a shape through the whirling petals, but the cloud grew thicker and spun faster until she became dizzy.
“I used to think it was my fault. But I’ve kept my promise. You’ll get to cross the sea soon enough.” Tresilian coughed, a guttural, all-consuming sound that made her shudder. “I didn’t think it would be… like this. But you’ll see.” He dragged in another pained breath, which rattled in his throat. “This parting won’t be for long.”
Alwenna tried to speak, to call him back, but no sound emerged from her mouth. When she tried to reach out her limbs were leaden, unresponsive.
“Lady Alwenna, can you hear me?” The voice sounded from somewhere in the darkness. Not Tresilian’s this time, but another man’s.
She opened her eyes and the blur before her resolved into a face. Weaver.
“Are you hurt, my lady?” He helped her sit up.
“No. I’m fine. But… Tresilian spoke to me.”
“You need to rest. I’ve been pushing you too hard.”
“I was dreaming, and then he spoke to me. Except it wasn’t a dream any more. He was in pain.” She shivered.
“You fainted, that’s all. You need a proper meal inside you and a good night’s sleep.” He began to straighten up.
Alwenna took hold of his arm. “Weaver, it wasn’t a dream. It’s not the first time something like this has happened.”
Weaver didn’t recoil immediately, but he might as well have. “You fainted, my lady. There are healers at Vorrahan–”
“There’s nothing wrong with me.” She clambered to her feet, brushing away his attempts to help.
“Of course not. That was my very first thought as you keeled over.”
Alwenna staggered sideways as a wave of dizziness threatened to overwhelm her. Weaver caught her by the arm and she had no option but to accept his support as they made their way back to the waiting horse in what she hoped was a dignified silence. They were perhaps three paces away from the horse when Weaver froze.
Some distance down the ridge a rider was approaching. He appeared in no great hurry, but Alwenna’s gut knotted with apprehension all the same: behind him he led a riderless horse. As Alwenna’s dizziness faded she could see the horse looked very much like the one Wynne had been riding when she’d set out alone from their camp.
The rider was a freemerchant youth. Alwenna recognised his face from the group they’d met in the forest. He spoke to Weaver now in an uneven voice that had only recently broken.
“My father guessed this might be your horse, with the bridle being fashioned in the northern way.”
“It is indeed. Where did you come by it?” Weaver ran his hands over the horse’s head and neck, checking for injuries.
“It came up to us in the forest, the day after we passed you. One stirrup was missing, and the reins were broken. We searched until daylight faded, but could find no trace of your companion.” The youth glanced at Alwenna. “Except…”
Alwenna crossed over to see for herself. There on the saddle were unmistakeable bloodstains. Dark and dry now, they had not been on the saddle when Wynne set off. Alwenna folded her arms over her stomach as if she might contain the dread that curdled there.
“Pray convey our gratitude to Nicholl for sending this news. And we thank you for bringing the horse to us.”
The youth nodded, his expression sombre.
“Will you break bread with us?” asked Weaver.
“I thank you, but no. I must waste no time returning to the others.”
“Very well. I am in your debt. May your road be clear.” Weaver stepped back and the youth took up his reins.
“Wait.” Alwenna found her voice at last. “What of the reivers? Did you see any sign of them?”
“We passed a camp where several horses had been kept overnight, all of them shod in Highkell style. They had been there perhaps on two separate nights. There were many tracks about the place, but the most recent led away east, and they were riding hard.”
“I see. Thank you.” There were proper forms of leave-taking, but her voice seemed to have lodged in her throat.
She watched as the youth rode away down the ridge. Weaver checked over the horse’s legs, then ran his hands once again over its head and neck, inspecting every inch of the animal.
“The horse is uninjured,” he announced eventually.
“Indeed? That’s all right, then.”
“Begging your pardon, my lady, but you mistake my meaning. If the horse had been injured, that might have left the marks on the saddle.”
She nodded and turned away, unable to trust her voice. He had a knack of making her feel unutterably foolish.
“She made her choice. And she wouldn’t have had it any other way.”
“That doesn’t make it any less my fault. Don’t you see? I should have left her at Highkell.”
“What’s done is done, my lady. It does no good to dwell on it.”
Easy for him to say. “There must be something we can do.”
“We continue to Vorrahan, my lady.”
“And what about Wynne? Do we just abandon her?”
“If she’s able to follow us, then she will. That was the plan.”
“It was a poor plan.”
“You’re still safe, my lady.”
But at what cost? Guilt settled like a leaden weight in Alwenna’s stomach.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Drew’s duties at Vorrahan precinct were hardly taxing. The novice took one last look round to be sure Father Garrad’s room was set in order. The flagstone floor was swept clean; the chamber was aired; a supply of ink and parchment waited at the writing desk. In the room beyond the bedding was straight, the chamber pot in place and all his master’s clean clothing stowed neatly in the oak chest.
Drew found the work a little dull if truth be told, but easy enough for one raised to the rigours of the stonemason’s yard. Maybe he was better off here, away from the yard and his father’s judging gaze. He’d had to work twice as hard there to overcome the limitations of his slighter build. His younger brother had been taken on as apprentice in his favour, but he was burly, like their father. Drew took after their mother, russet-haired and slight. Small wonder they called him changeling.
No, it was well enough here. Many of the brethren were misfits of one sort or another. And since the librarian had begun teaching him his letters at Brother Gwydion’s behest, a new world had opened up before him.
The clunk of the door latch alerted him to Father Garrad’s arrival. Drew bowed his head in greeting, waiting apprehensively as the priest looked around the room. But he seemed pleased enough with what he saw.
“I’ll have no further need of you this evening. Brother Irwyn might be glad of your help in the kitchens for an hour or two.”
“Aye, father.” Drew bowed his head and left, arms folded in the pious stance the brethren at Vorrahan favoured. It made it easy to blend in. As for Brother Irwyn, he might be glad of many things, but Drew was not about to gratify him.
Instead he made his way to the main gateway and stepped out through the small door that permitted easy access for the brethren as they went about their daily business. He would seek out Brother Gwydion, the master seer. Father Garrad had been at pains to keep them apart of late. Perhaps that had been a condition of his father’s providing another generous donation to the precinct. Drew couldn’t help being wary of Father Garrad. He sensed the eyes often said one thing, yet the man’s thoughts were at variance. Brother Gwydion said such confusion was only to be expected at first: of the few who possessed the sight, fewer still could master it.
Gwydion said control would come with practice, that daily meditation was key to understanding the deeper mysteries. The seer claimed that was the reason he spent so much time in the darkness of the cavern at the source of the Holy Well. He said the peace improved the quality of his meditation. Drew suspected the old man simply found the hustle and bustle of the outside world to be too stressful. If Drew one day became Gwydion’s heir, as the old man had promised, he wouldn’t spend as much time sitting in the dark.