He imagined where Cloot was perched, pulled all that was himself into a tight ball and lifted from inside. It felt effortless. For a moment he floated, but he knew not to linger and within another blink he opened his eyes and saw the black and white of
Cloot’s world through the bird’s vision. It was an odd sensation, yet familiar. He recalled this awkward discomfort from when he had thrown himself into Merkhud’s body all those years ago.
Welcome, Tor.
Cloot’s voice sounded even deeper and smoother from within.
Tor felt Cloot stretch his wings and he stretched with them. It was a marvellous sensation.
I am honoured to be here,
Tor replied with genuine humility.
Make yourself at home,
Cloot said as they lifted off gracefully into the night.
Tor just had time to look down at his own body. The Flames continued to burn brightly around its form. Solyana and Arabella had taken up their vigil and sat one on either side of his body. There they would remain until he returned.
They flew higher. Tor was amazed to see through Cloot’s eyes that the Heartwood seemed to be leading them.
Cloot read his thoughts.
We must follow that finger.
But what happens when we leave the Heartwood?
The Great Forest will guide us. It will show us the fastest way to Caradoon.
Until there is no more forest, Tor thought. But he refused to entertain any pessimistic thoughts.
Cloot, this is the most exhilarating experience ever.
He whooped loudly into Cloot’s mind.
The falcon chuckled with him, enjoying his friend’s pleasure at something he now took for
granted. His keen eyes picked out the sudden movement below.
Hold on. I see dinner.
Before Tor could protest, Cloot had banked up high, turned almost on himself and swooped into a sharp dive which would have made Tor close his eyes if only they were his. He felt a momentary nausea, which vanished in the fascination and thrill of the hunt. He could see the prey now. A young hare.
It had broken cover of the trees and was nibbling on some juicy grasses which were luring it further and further from the sanctuary of the forest. Tor shared Cloot’s knowledge and realised it was the young creature’s inexperience showing. No adult hare would be this daring…or stupid, he thought sadly.
Once again it was as though Cloot was reading his mind.
We have to eat, Tor. It will be over quickly, I promise.
Their speed was as fast as Cloot would ever go. Shaped like an arrow, the falcon dropped silently from the sky, judging the quarry perfectly and giving it no chance to flee. When the hare realised its fatal error, it was already too late. It turned and made for the trees but Cloot used his immense speed from the descent to swoop, claws outstretched. Tor could almost smell the young buck’s fear as it zigzagged instinctively. They hit the hare with terrible force. The falcon’s sharp claws ripped through its fur and sunk in deeply, tearing flesh as the bird continued its momentum. Finally they stopped, just inches from
the trees. Tor remembered Solyana’s warning: no animal may be killed in the Heartwood. Cloot had been very careful.
The dying hare struggled bravely, yet knowing that death was but a breath away. Cloot kept his word. It was over quickly and once his razor-sharp beak had ripped into the creature’s neck, Tor had the sensation of tasting blood. It was warm and rich, pumping still as the heart of the hare—now in its death throes—slowed.
A mixture of fascination and horror claimed Tor’s consciousness. There was something primeval about this feast which he did not feel he should share. He was an intruder in Cloot’s body. This was not his business. He tried to shield. He could not. They were one right now. And so he did what he could and withdrew, pulling himself as far back into the spirit of Tor as possible. Small and silent he waited whilst Cloot fed for both of them.
Later, Cloot perched on one of the highest branches of the tallest tree and cleaned himself of the hare’s entrails.
That was not fun for you, Tor.
It was not a question.
Is it for you?
More than I could tell you. I feel invincible, all-powerful, during the chase.
Flying with you is amazing. Feeding with you is not. Thank you for making it quick.
Cloot began sharpening his beak.
We’ll be off shortly but I must complete my ablutions.
Don’t hurry for me, old friend. My body’s just dying back there.
They shared a laugh together. It felt almost like old times when life had not been quite so complicated.
Do we have a plan, Tor?
Not really. Languishing back in the Heartwood felt wrong. Reading those books seemed to snap me out of a stupor. Goth is dangerous and still at large. Orlac is still coming. Alyssa remains in danger and ever apart from me. Nothing has changed.
And we are still none the wiser about the Trinity.
Well, doing something at least feels as though we’re trying.
I agree. So let’s get on with it.
Cloot lifted effortlessly from his perch and suddenly his wings were beating smoothly and strongly in glorious flight again.
Relax now,
he said gently.
We shall be flying steadily for a few hours.
They arrived mid-afternoon at the busy port of Caradoon, which they had found by following the inlet from the main harbour of Kyrakavia.
This is it,
Cloot said, landing in a tree on the fringe of the town.
Are you tired?
The bird answered too fast.
Not overly.
Then, more abruptly.
What do you propose?
Tor paused. He had been thinking hard during the flight on just this subject: what to do once they reached Caradoon? He still had no definite plan but could sense Cloot’s impatience.
What about these stracca houses you mentioned?
There would be several.
How could we find them?
Oh, I could just circle about aimlessly and see if we can spot one. Or we could fly down and ask someone. A magnificent peregrine falcon who also talks should not be a novelty here.
All right, all right. Let me think,
Tor said, recognising that Cloot was tired and falling into one of his sarcastic moods. Perhaps he was hungry again, he thought unkindly.
Well, I’ll just sit here, Tor, whilst you think. Take your time. It’s your dying body.
Tor ignored him and they fell silent. He sensed Cloot’s anxiety and knew better than to think the falcon was worried about himself. Cloot had never really liked this idea and now that he realised Tor had no genuine plan in mind he probably liked it even less. Tor suddenly felt stupid for getting them both into this dangerous situation. How foolish to think they could just turn up at a town and find the man they were searching for; aside from the problem that they were both in the form of a bird while Tor’s own body lay cooling many leagues south.
Could it have been luck? Or fate? Or was it Lys manipulating events? Tor would never know but he suddenly spotted a familiar figure making its way along the main street of Caradoon. There was no mistaking him. Even from this high up and without seeing his face, Tor had no doubt that it was Saxon the Kloek striding below him.
Well, well, well,
muttered Cloot, who had also spotted Saxon.
Why would he be here of all places?
Cloot’s interest was piqued; all sarcasm had disappeared.
I saw some of the King’s Guard in Kyrakavia. He may well be with them. Saxon would know of this place through his travels with Cirq Zorros.
Of course.
Tor’s mind raced.
Let’s follow him.
The falcon sighed.
At least it’s a plan,
he said and took off, being careful to keep the trees as cover. He had already decided that this was not a place for a distinctive bird to be seen too readily.
They watched Saxon drift into an inn and back out again not long after. He called into several market stalls and looked to be asking questions.
He looks grim
, Tor said.
He is searching.
For the same thing as us?
Possibly. But why? And why now?
Let’s just assume he is. How can we help him?
Before Cloot could answer, they saw a man giving the Kloek directions. Saxon nodded and thanked him. He set off and they followed him once more, heartily glad for the trees which encircled the town. They lost him momentarily and then saw him enter into one of the side streets towards the northern end of town.
Over there, Cloot.
I see him. Let’s get as close as we can.
As they flew over a very quiet part of the town where few people were walking the streets, a strange smell hit Tor’s senses. Before he could ask the obvious, Cloot answered.
It’s the stracca. Smells sweet when freshly burned but after a while it gets that sour aroma. It’s worse up this high than I remember.
They watched Saxon get new directions from a youth, who pointed to a whitewashed building not far from the tree where they were perched, well hidden. The structure stood alone. The smell seemed to be coming from it.
Looks as though Saxon is on the same trail then, Cloot.
I’m astonished but I think you’re right.
From their vantage point, they could see all sides of the building. There were a few people milling around behind it, where a path led down to the water. Serving women were cleaning and washing linen; cooks’ helpers were scrubbing vegetables; other youngsters were fetching and carrying. It was a hive of activity. Tor and Cloot watched as a woman appeared at the back door. She called out something to a lad at the water’s edge. He turned, looking scared. The woman stepped out into the open. She wore a silk scarf over her head. The boy hurried towards her. When he arrived, she slapped him hard across his ear; they could hear its sound very clearly. As she did so, her scarf slipped and her dark and luxurious hair whipped around in the breeze. Both of them instantly recognised Xantia.
Together they said her name and looked immediately to Saxon, who was now approaching the stracca house.
We have to warn him, Cloot.
I can’t open a link.
Take the risk. Fly into the open. We can’t let him walk into this place. If Xantia is here, then Goth probably is too.
Cloot did not hesitate further. Saxon was just moments from entering the front door and they could see Xantia, her fury spent, also going back into the building. Cloot leapt off the branch and used the drop to gain some speed, flying straight at Saxon’s face. At the last second, he veered off, clawing at the Kloek’s hair and screeching.
‘What the hell…!’ Saxon spun around, one hand poised in mid air to bang on the door, the other grabbing at his face.
Cloot shrieked again, this time from cover. Saxon peered into the trees. He could not see anything but they had succeeded in grabbing his attention away from the stracca house.
Hurry, Cloot. She could step out any second.
I don’t know what else to do,
Cloot replied.
Flap!
He flapped. Saxon approached. He could see the falcon now and shock was written plainly across his face. His ear was bleeding from where Cloot’s talons had scratched him. The Kloek did not care about that though.
He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Is it you?’ he asked softly, almost with reverence.
In answer, Cloot dropped from the branch and landed on Saxon’s outstretched arm. Then he jumped off and headed deeper into the cover of
the trees. They needed to get Saxon well away from the building. Tor was relieved to see the Kloek follow.
When Cloot landed once again on his arm, they were both choked to see the Kloek begin to weep.
‘You’re safe,’ he said over and again, stroking Cloot’s head. ‘We miss you, old friend.’
I wish we could speak to him,
Tor said.
No link.
Cloot felt powerless. He allowed Saxon to stroke him until the Kloek chose to stop and lifted him high so he could stare at him.
‘You are magnificent, Cloot.’
Thank you,
Cloot replied. He bobbed his head slightly so Saxon knew he could hear him.
It made Saxon grin through his tears. ‘And what are you doing here, bird? What is your business at a stracca house in sleazy Caradoon, eh?’
Cloot hopped about on Saxon’s arm.
‘All right, we can’t link, I take it,’ Saxon said, ‘but you can hear me and you can find a way to respond.’ Cloot flapped his wings in answer.
‘Why are you here?’ Saxon asked.
Oh Light!
Cloot said to Tor.
This is going to be painful.
‘Apologies. I must say that a different way,’ Saxon corrected. He frowned then said, ‘Are you looking for something?’
Cloot flapped.
‘For some
one
?’
Cloot flapped again.
‘For Goth?’
Cloot could have kissed him. Instead he flapped a third time.
Bravo, Saxon,
Tor said.
The Kloek frowned again. ‘So you know he lives. Let me tell you what I know, Cloot.’ Saxon sat down on the grass beneath the trees and began his story.
Tor felt great guilt, for obviously the Kloek thought he spoke only to Cloot, yet he also felt great joy just to see Saxon again.
Saxon talked intently to the falcon. ‘I accompany Herek from time to time on various missions. I get bored of palace life and prefer the open road. We were headed for Kyrakavia, which was not in our plan when we left Tal. I questioned the Prime—oh, Herek is Prime now, by the way—and he admitted something which had been kept a great secret for several years. Goth never did burn. The bitch, Xantia, aided him to escape on the eve before Tor’s execution. Herek confessed that he was so shocked to lose a prisoner that he kept the information from the King and Queen until after the stoning.
‘And then, I am told, Lorys decided that the news should be kept from the people until Goth had been recaptured. Like Herek, he expected the Shield to swiftly track down the former Chief Inquisitor and bring him to justice. When that did not happen, word was given out that Goth had died in prison, inexplicably poisoned by his own hand. The plan was to execute him in private once he was captured; to deny him the final recognition of a public execution. The whole of Tal was in such despair after Tor’s
execution that everyone believed the poisoning story; no one seemed to care what had happened to the man who brought it about…’
Saxon blinked and paused, seeming to gather himself. ‘Why did he have to die like that, Cloot? Is that why you left us? Alyssa was inconsolable for months after your disappearance at the same time as his body. You were all she had of him.’
It was Tor’s turn to feel the tumult of emotions now. Cloot soothed him quietly.
Just listen.
Saxon continued. ‘Anyway, after the shame of losing his prisoner, Herek vowed to do everything he could to find Goth. And he has never given up the search. Even now, he has detoured from a routine mission at Martintown to head north into Kyrakavia to take a brief look around. I left in the early hours of this morning to come further on to Caradoon. It seems a fitting place for the likes of Goth.’
Cloot flapped excitedly. Tor could see Saxon was thinking hard.
‘He’s here?’ he asked.
Cloot flapped joyously then hopped to a higher perch and stared towards the white building. Saxon followed the direction of the bird’s gaze and his broad jaw set itself firmly.
‘Then we keep a vigil until my eyes confirm it.’
The trio remained in their secret spot and watched carefully.
As night closed in on dusk, Saxon stretched. So did Cloot.
‘I have to take a look,’ was all Saxon said before moving soundlessly through the trees and emerging to walk stealthily across the street.
What’s he going to do?
Tor, time is our enemy. I must get us back to the Heartwood.
Tor ignored the caution, shooshing Cloot so they could watch.
Goth lay back amongst the silk cushions. He was dressed in the voluminous silk robes he now preferred; they hid the gauntness which the stracca had imposed on his once stocky frame. The room had a salubrious air, but closer inspection revealed it to be tired and jaded, like its clients. Once the stracca worked its magic, though, nothing else mattered and Goth could pretend he was Chief Inquisitor once again, living at the palace, powerful, rich, respected and feared. He liked the last most of all.
During the long, painfully bright days spent in recovery from the effects of the previous night’s stracca, reality bit like a snake. Fast and unrelenting, the truth of his life always struck as he emerged from the haze of intoxication. Sometimes the pain of it could make him weep. Xantia would come and soothe him.
Why she stayed with him Goth was never quite sure. She told him they were kindred souls; reassured him they shared the same enemies, the same dreams
and desires. And yet he saw how her lips pursed each time he drifted into his pleasant oblivion. She did not like her life. He was not altogether sure she liked him. But she had saved him from death, brazenly ordering those cringing guards to allow her into his cell. Her plan had been simple and cruel. The old hag, Heggie, was expendable. Bribed with a purse, she had agreed to accompany Xantia into the jail and remain there in Goth’s stead. After all, what could the Guard do to her; and, in truth, neither Goth nor Xantia cared if the old woman was punished for her part in their skullduggery. Yes, Goth loved Xantia for that cruelty; her passion for power and her unquenchable thirst for revenge was almost as addictive as the stracca.
Goth remembered how it had been her idea to remain in Tal to watch Gynt’s crucifixion. How they had sniggered together beneath their disguises at all those stupid people keening and weeping in distress. It had been more fun than a bridling.
Seeing Alyssa had made the risk worthwhile. She had looked so regal standing up there, proud and defiant. If he was still a whole man he would have been hard with lust at that moment watching her. Curse the Kloek who had taken his manhood. It did not seem to bother Xantia that he was not whole. In fact, if he really thought about it, Xantia was not at all interested in him as a man. But she admired his cunning mind, enjoyed his games.
Watching Gynt’s head split open had been the highlight. He had died bravely, Goth would give his enemy that. His forgiveness of the King had been a
master stroke, but oh, the delight of witnessing his death. Goth had been forced to bite his teeth together to keep himself from laughing aloud.
Xantia’s eyes had been sparkling at the hour of Gynt’s death. Goth remembered the high colour on her cheeks. And whilst the rest of the mob stared in horrified silence at Gynt’s limp body and the surprising amount of blood gushing from the huge wound in his head, Xantia had turned to watch Alyssa. She had bitten her lip in pleasure until it bled at the sight of the girl’s agony and chuckled quietly to see Alyssa holding out her arms, reaching for Tor, then her face, twisted with hatred, as she turned on the King.