Lauryn had no parents; her grandmother was her only known family. She had sent word by return with the messenger politely insisting that Lauryn be allowed to travel to Petrine as soon as she was strong enough in order to spend a few days in the clean, fresh air of the highlands. The request was not open to negotiation, as the Prioress later advised the granddaughter when she protested.
‘Lauryn, I have no power to argue this for you. Your grandmother has expressed her strong desire to see you and for you to enjoy a short break. She donates enormous sums of money to the convent to help feed and clothe our community and keep this Order in relative prosperity. And I believe I am right in saying you have not seen your grandmother for eleven years or so? It is about time you paid her a visit.’
Before Lauryn knew it, she was packed up and being driven by horse and cart to meet up with the northern-bound coach. She was furious, though in truth she did not know why. Leaving Emyly was the worst part, but escaping the scriptorium was a
blessing. She hated the convent, even though she was good at her work and was one of its most talented scribes. Lauryn knew, deep down, that if she cared she could be good at just about anything she chose to do. It was just that she wasn’t really interested in the detailed, often mind-numbing work of copying out two hundred pages of script onto parchment.
No, in all truth, what really troubled her was the fact that she was a lonely girl. Lonely for the love of a mother; lonely for a connection to a family. Lauryn was the only member of the convent who did not have brothers or sisters. For her, the rare holidays highlighted her isolation all the more and if it were not for Emyly’s firm friendship, she felt she could disappear altogether and never be missed.
She hated the grandmother the Prioress spoke of so respectfully. What kind of a grandmother never visits her granddaughter or makes contact other than by an all too occasional letter? And those letters brought her no consolation; they gave no insight into this mysterious woman. No, she was a total stranger and Lauryn felt nothing but contempt for someone who could masquerade as a caring relative but gave no emotional support whatsoever to a girl racing into womanhood.
But Lauryn would admit to none of this. She went through life as an observer, taking little interest in anything or anyone, save her good friend Emyly. She felt entirely removed from the life she led; she did not belong in the world around her. And now she was being forced to travel into that world to confront the
grandmother she despised. She hoped the woman died before she arrived. Perhaps she could escape out onto the moors where this old girl was supposed to live. Lauryn would not mind that so much. The thought of rambling walks alone through the highland countryside almost made the drudgery of getting there worthwhile. Almost. At least that way she could continue to be alone, which was what she did best.
Lauryn smirked as she recalled a regular comment on her school reports: ‘Would make a good leader if only she would participate emotionally in convent life.’ What a jest. Who would she lead? Who would want to follow fat Lauryn? No one liked her, except Emyly, and she had no relationship with anyone else. She had been wondering about men lately, about life outside the convent. She knew such thoughts were not permitted, but she had no intention of taking full vows. That would be a shock to all. Instead she planned to wander the Kingdom of Shorell…as a visiting scribe perhaps. Such a life would suit her. Would any man ever take an interest in her? Did men ever fall in love with the fat girl? Lauryn grimaced. Well, she would catch herself a fine man one day. He would be strong and witty and a leader amongst men. They would fall madly in love and he would never want any other woman but her. And she would not be plump. She would be gorgeous, as her mother had been.
Lauryn’s favourite daydream was to conjure a vision of how her mother and father looked. He was dashing and handsome, her mother incredibly beautiful and slender. They too were madly in love
but fate had forced them apart and that was why they had to give up their only daughter. Or perhaps they had died tragically, in one another’s arms. Her mother’s last words to her own mother, this mysterious grandmother, were always the same: look after Lauryn. And that’s when the dream invariably turned into the nightmare. Look after Lauryn! Send her as far away as possible to live life alone and unloved amongst a community of stiff-backed, unforgiving women.
As the cart rumbled along, Lauryn took her stone from her top pocket and felt the comfort it always brought her. Strange; it was very warm. She twirled it in her palm and watched its iridescent colours. No one but her had ever seen the colours within it, but that was all right—it was worthless to anyone but Lauryn. It was just a stone, after all. And yet for Lauryn it was her connection to her past. It was all she had carried with her when she arrived at the convent, other than a tiny sack of clothes. The Prioress had told her that the stone had been carefully sewn into one of her mittens when she had arrived at Gyrton on that frozen late winter’s afternoon more than a decade ago.
Shivering and confused, the tiny four year old had cried for hours and been inconsolable for weeks. Her only comfort was the stone, which she clutched tight. It had never been far from her in all the years since and Lauryn liked to think that it represented the soul of her mother, wherever she was and whoever she was.
She came out of her dark thoughts into the bleak and misty afternoon of the town and allowed herself
to be helped down from the cart and escorted to the waiting coach. There were other people clambering aboard: a chatty mother with two daughters and a single male traveller. He was very old and entirely uninterested in all of them. That was fine with Lauryn; she intended to ignore them all for the three days it would take to reach Petrine.
She pulled a small book of poetry from her gown and hid behind it, pretending to lose herself in the words, only putting it down to share a small polite meal with her companions or to sleep. The girls tried to engage her in conversation but her fearsome comments on the probability of plague sweeping through neighbouring nations, even those divided by sea, put paid to any plans they might have entertained of making a pleasant new friend. Lauryn saw the old man twitch a smile at her tirade; he was obviously an old hand at warding off unwelcome and trivial chatter and perhaps recognised in her the same rude trait developing.
It was three long and tedious days before Lauryn sensed they had arrived on the outskirts of Petrine. No one else was left in the coach now; the ladies had alighted at Verban and the old man even sooner at Divyn. It mattered not to her that she was alone. When finally they reached the centre of Petrine and Lauryn stepped down from the coach, a man hailed her. This must be Master Galbryth whom the Prioress had said would meet her.
‘Here we go,’ she muttered and grimaced back at him.
G
idyon stretched in his saddle as Empress entered the town gates of Petrine. He gingerly climbed off the mare, expecting to be sore after riding through the previous night and all of this day. He stared out towards the darkening of early evening over the Petrine moors. Shaking his head distractedly he again asked himself what he was doing here. Empress grunted and shook her head. She was eager for the comforts of a stable.
‘Gidyon Gynt?’ a man asked, taking off his cloth hat and smiling broadly.
Gidyon returned the smile and answered that he was. He swapped the bag he’d taken off the horse to his other shoulder so he could shake hands.
‘I am Iyain Galbryth, a farmer from around these parts. I live near your grandmother and she
asked me if I’d pick you both up as I was in town today. Is that your only bag?’ He smiled again. ‘You should have some coin left to stable the mare—is that right?’
Gidyon was puzzled. ‘Yes, Master Galbryth, just this one bag. The saddlebags are empty now. Um…there’s only me actually. I’m not sure who else you were expect—’
‘Is this the horse?’ interrupted a stablehand.
‘Evening, Angys,’ said Galbryth while Gidyon started searching for the coins Father Piers had instructed him to keep available for the care of Empress until he was ready to ride back to the school. As he turned over in his deep pocket everything he had accumulated on the journey, he was startled to feel how warm his stone was.
‘C’mon, Gynt, where’s your money, boy?’ said Galbryth good-naturedly. ‘How is your good woman then, Angys?’ he added, turning to the man who held the horse’s reins.
Gidyon felt his mind blur and the conversation between Galbryth and Angys faded as the heat of the stone increased in his hand. He was caught by the strange conviction that the stone was klaxoning a warning. The words ‘To Tallinor’ whispered through his mind. Just then his other hand closed around the coins and then the world refocused. He saw both men staring at him.
‘You okay, boy?’ Galbryth shook him gently.
‘Uh…oh…er, sorry, yes, sorry. I must be tired. It’s been a long journey.’ Gidyon laughed stiffly as he
obliged Angys with the money, then followed behind Galbryth who was waving a farewell.
As he climbed into an old cart attached to two equally old horses, his hand gripped the stone again; the heat had lessened to a mild warmth.
Iyain Galbryth began to chat amiably as drizzle sifted delicately from the blackening sky. ‘Can’t get rid of this lovely pair…they’re my first team you see…’
Gidyon allowed Galbryth to ramble on about his horses, the words washing over him as ineffectually as the rain, whilst he tried to make some sense of what had happened with the stone. He was not scared, though he thought he should perhaps feel threatened by it. Instead, he had to admit that he felt comforted by its presence…and its warmth. Something about it felt safe, felt right. It always had.
What was that name he had heard?
He strained after the memory of it, leaning on his thoughts, probing and grasping at threads, whilst in the background Galbryth droned on about how ploughing with this pair was as easy as a knife cutting through butter. ‘Tallinor,’ Gidyon whispered into the darkness.
‘Mmm…what was that?’ Galbryth asked, gently flicking the whip over his lead horse.
‘Oh, nothing. It’s…um…a word I’ve been trying to recall for one of the questions in the Testings.’
The man was not listening anyway. They travelled the next mile or so without speaking, although Galbryth sang a hearty ballad into the rain, getting plenty of the words wrong. Gidyon was grateful for the lack of conversation.
The rain had steadied to a light shower by the time they pulled up outside an inn. The Shepherd and Dog was a country tavern built of whitewashed stone with a thatched roof, low ceilings, dark wood surrounds and a pretty woman behind its ale counter. Her lovely Petrine brogue and figure-hugging blouse, which was tied rather loosely at the neckline, made Gidyon instantly forget the incident with his stone and its strange and alarming heat. He grinned and she flashed a radiant smile back.
‘This is the gorgeous Glorya,’ said Galbryth. ‘We won’t be stopping, Glor. I’m just going to pick up the missus and the young lassie and we’ll be on our way.’ Galbryth pushed through the crowded tavern.
‘No time for a quick ale, Master Galbryth?’ Gidyon offered hopefully.
Glorya noticed his Ferenyan Order cassock and laughed, tipping her head towards him. ‘More like a fruit punch for you.’
Some men nearby caught the quip and laughed too, but not unkindly. Gidyon was enjoying the smoky, merry atmosphere and it seemed all too soon when Galbryth shouldered his way through again, this time accompanied by a short, stick-thin woman whose dark hair was pulled into a severe bun, and a plumpish novice wearing a Gyrton convent gown. She did not look at all happy.
‘Hello,’ Gidyon said.
She growled something unintelligible at him, which happily was drowned out by raucous laughter from a group singing a lewd song.
‘Bye, Glorya,’ was all Gidyon managed before shuffling out behind the odd troupe he found himself attached to. Glorya did not hear him but she caught his wave and winked back. I bet she wouldn’t do that if I was wearing a shirt and breeches, he thought, wondering for perhaps the first time whether life outside the Order and its vows might be fun. The thought of nuzzling close to the likes of Glorya suddenly made him feel weak at the knees.
Outside, the air was chilling rapidly and the early evening sky was inky black; heavy clouds hid the beautiful starscape he knew so well. The shower was just turning into a downpour and there was no time for introductions or conversation.
‘Let’s run for it!’ was Galbryth’s battle cry and Gidyon instinctively took the girl’s arm as they scuttled across the yard and piled into the cart. Galbryth pulled a canvas over their heads.
‘I’m Gidyon,’ he said. ‘I’m not too sure what I’m doing here. All I know is I’m off to see a sick grandmother somewhere around these parts.’ He wiped the rain away from his face.
‘Oh!’ was the young woman’s surprised reply.
Galbryth noisily called to his horses and then picked up his singing again, drowning out further conversation. ‘I’m Lauryn,’ was all she managed to squeeze in.
Swiftly they found themselves out in open countryside.
‘I gather you two know each other, being cousins and all that, so no need for formal introductions,’
Galbryth yelled over the steady rain. ‘Gidyon, this is my wife, Jeen. Your grandmother’s not far away now but the laneway is tricky to find so I’ll concentrate if you don’t mind.’
Is he speaking to both of us? Gidyon wondered. He and Lauryn exchanged blank expressions and Gidyon shrugged and surreptitiously made a gesture to suggest that Galbryth was a bit simple. He could just make out that the girl grinned back.
Jeen Galbryth continued her steely silence whilst her husband cursed and muttered to himself. They hit several potholes, one deep enough to make Gidyon’s teeth crunch.
Finally Galbryth relaxed. ‘Ah, I knew I hadn’t missed it,’ he pronounced triumphantly as the cart twisted sharply onto a small track. In the distance they could dimly make out the lighted windows of a cottage. The chimney was smoking cheerfully.
They halted on the soggy grass outside the cottage and the horses whinnied, eager to be on their way to a warm, dry stable. Gidyon was surprised to see Galbryth help the girl down from the cart. Why was she coming too? The rain intensified; it was hardly the time for questions and both children stumbled around to grab their belongings and thanked the silent Jeen, who nodded stoically beneath the canvas. They each shook hands with Galbryth, who was, like his prized horses, in a hurry to get going.
‘Oh, no trouble. No trouble at all, wee lassie.’ He tapped Lauryn on the shoulder. ‘Can you manage that now or shall I help you to the door?’
Lauryn was about to say she could manage when the door of the cottage opened. Silhouetted in the entranceway was a small, round woman.
‘You’d best get going. My apologies to your grandmother for rushing off. I’ll no doubt see her in the next few days so pass on my best in the meantime.’ Galbryth climbed back onto the bench seat next to his wife.
Gidyon decided he was the victim of a trick, which everyone else was in on; yet he could not imagine dry old Father Piers going along with it. The rain was really hammering down now and he had no choice but to run towards the gate. By the time he and Lauryn had negotiated their way through it with their bags, the Galbryths had departed.
If Gidyon had put his hand into his pocket he would have been shocked by the sizzling heat pulsing from his stone. But he did not. Instead, his free hand steadied Lauryn on the slippery path as they nervously approached the figure in the doorway. The old girl had her hand to her mouth and was openly weeping at the sight of the two approaching. She opened her arms and clasped them both to her in a fierce hug; they had to bend to reach her, she was so tiny.
Wiping her eyes, she beamed up at the tall pair standing in front of her. ‘Welcome home, children.’
Gidyon, now entirely confused, cleared his throat, uncertain of what to say. He looked over at Lauryn, who appeared equally dumbstruck but wore an angry expression, her green eyes glittering and her lips tight.
The old woman shooed them into the kitchen where a fire blazed merrily. A pot simmered on the stove and the enticing aroma of a stew invited a predictable growl of hunger from Gidyon’s stomach. She made them sit down, muttering comforting words the whole time, but the happy scene lasted only a few brief moments before Lauryn’s short fuse exploded.
She pulled off the hood of her wet cloak, revealing a small square of white Gyrton linen which covered part of her hair. ‘Look, what is going on here? I’ve been dragged all the way up here to see a grandmother I barely know. A chatty stranger picks me up at the coach point, leaves me in a smoky tavern with his wife who doesn’t talk at all, and then I’m introduced to you!’ She glared at Gidyon. ‘You, apparently, are a cousin I’ve never seen or heard of in my life!’
It seemed to Gidyon that the tirade was going to continue long and loudly, but the old lady put both hands into a prayer position and touched her fingertips to her lips. It was a gentle motion and yet so sombre that it made Lauryn clamp her mouth shut with a snort of exasperation.
Gidyon cleared his throat awkwardly for the second time. He needed to say something but he was not sure what. Lauryn was still bristling with resentment, which he did not share, but it was clear some explanation was required. He ran his hand through his wet, untidy hair.
The old girl smiled. ‘So like your father, my boy,’ she whispered.
Like his father? Gidyon was baffled. He had liked the old woman straightaway but he was not at all sure about all this mystery.
‘Um…I’m sorry, what should I call you?’
‘Call me Sorrel. You may feel more comfortable using my name.’ Her warm smile bathed him with security.
He pressed on. ‘Sorrel. Something tells me I do know you but I honestly don’t remember you. Perhaps you could explain all this.’ He looked over at Lauryn. ‘We…well, er…that is, I was told you were gravely ill and wanted to see me before you er…passed away. I don’t know what to think now. I have no relatives and know of no cousin. I’m not sure why Master Galbryth brought us both here, or why you are welcoming us as though we should know each other…’
‘I will explain everything. But first, please, you are both chilled and probably hungry after your long journeys. May I serve you the meal I have cooked for you?’
Gidyon regarded her properly. Silvery grey hair was neatly caught up behind her head. Her round, kindly face held nothing but warmth and reassurance, which her slightly rheumy brown eyes echoed. She looked a century in age to his young eyes but although she seemed a little frail she did not appear to be sick. What could he lose by accepting a hot meal after six days on dried meat and stale bread? She had said she would explain everything afterwards. He gave her a grin and stood up, offering to help.
Lauryn sagged on the other side of the table. She was hungry and she was tired and her anger was doing nothing except costing her more energy. The old woman obviously meant no harm; she was doing her utmost to be kind and Lauryn felt the least she could do was to accept her hospitality. Gidyon, she noticed, was one of those detestably nice boys typical of the Ferenyans. He seemed content to go along with this charade; though inwardly she acknowledged he was handling the situation with more dignity than she was. The Prioress would not be pleased with her behaviour. Now he was helping the old lady to serve dinner. He was handsome though, she would give him that. The Prioress would not like her thinking of handsome men either. She had plans for Lauryn to take her vows very soon and then she could trap her for good. She pushed away thoughts of the convent; the current situation was daunting enough.
The meal was delicious, like no other stew either child had tasted, and Gidyon made all the right noises to a beaming Sorrel, who took great pleasure in watching them enjoy her food. Even Lauryn had to admit it was a superb meal and the home-baked bread that accompanied it was unbelievably good. Hot fruit pie came out next, with lashings of rich farm cream.
The hungry children seemed unaware of Sorrel’s penetrating gaze; she took in every detail as they ate.
Gidyon was his father all over again; he had inherited so many of Tor’s physical traits. The girl, meanwhile, was full of repressed energy; so
reminiscent of her mother. She did not yet show her mother’s astonishing beauty, but she would. Beneath the extra flesh, Sorrel could see Alyssandra Qyn’s exquisite features.
She opened a link and probed. The boy looked up from his pie. He smiled but looked puzzled, as though he had been disturbed. Ah, he is perceptive, she noted, even worlds away from Tallinor. That is promising. In Lauryn she met strength. The girl had shielded her mind without being aware she could. This augured well for the test to come. Sorrel dared not probe any further at this stage, lest she harm them. The pair had struck up a quiet conversation about their respective Orders so she chose that moment to clear the dishes and give them a few minutes to relax. It would be their last quiet time before what lay ahead.