Silvermay (28 page)

‘How did you get that?' I demanded.

Hallig had eyes only for Tamlyn, although he'd certainly heard me. He showed as much by taking the dagger from his belt and brandishing it in his left hand, the blade deadly to one in particular. There was my answer. Ryall hadn't been captured by Tamlyn; he hadn't suffered the way Miston, or should I say Coyle, had described — at least, not at the hand of the one he'd accused. It was simply another deception. These men had been following
us, unseen, since their master had joined Ryall and me under a false name. It was all suddenly clear: the rabbit with its throat neatly slit, the milk in a pitcher. His men had brought these to him. The four horses tethered outside The Jolly Fisherman were theirs. When I'd seen them that afternoon, their owners were inside, meeting with Coyle and deciding how best to win their prize.

So much made sense now. Coyle had hidden me from Tamlyn's hawks. His own had already spied me days before and led him to Lucien. Everything he'd told me about Tamlyn, everything my stubborn heart had refused to believe, had been a lie after all. The only truth had been Miston Dessar's tale of Wyrdborn treachery. It was in their nature to cheat and betray, just as a cat plays cruel games with a mouse. They could not live any other way, no matter how much they pretended, he'd said. That part was true enough, except he hadn't meant Tamlyn at all. Coyle had been talking about himself.

‘Silvermay!' Tamlyn called again, waving me towards him. Despite the unbearable tension, it was a gesture of such grace, even affection.

At last, I began to move. And so did Hallig. In company with the other Wyrdborn, he charged at Tamlyn and, in the blink of an eye, my chance was lost. Steel clashed with steel, forcing Tamlyn backwards along the jetty.

‘Don't let them take you,' he shouted to me, but what could I do? The remaining pair were closing in. Behind me, the waters of the harbour offered no escape. I quickly mounted the steps, hoping I might dodge past the fierce battle that already raged between me and the houses of Greystone. But even that flimsy plan was madness. The other men were waiting for me. They were commonfolk with no role to play against Tamlyn. Their orders concerned me, as I discovered all too soon.

One grabbed me and forced me to my knees, holding me roughly while his partner drew his sword. When he held it ready in two hands, like an axeman, my captor freed one hand and slipped it under my hair, sweeping it all the way to one side to expose my neck. They were going to execute me; a single swipe of the blade would take off my head, as Ryall had so calmly described it. Had he died the same way?

These were my final moments of life. My death would be mercifully quick and, in the end, of little consequence. Silvermay Hawker, a stupid girl, so easily tricked and even more easily forgotten.

What of my own memories? In those last seconds, shouldn't I think of poor Lucien and the terrible fate I'd delivered him into? Or take a last chance to picture my loving parents, far away and unaware that their daughter was about to die like a criminal? Year after
year they would stare at every distant figure approaching along the roads into Haywode, hoping it was me. But I didn't fill my head with such misery. My last moments alive belonged to my heart and it was singing madly in my chest. Tamlyn had come at last, and not to kill me and take Lucien for his own cruel purpose. That was a lie, the most callous lie his father had told in his guise as Arnou's cousin. Tamlyn was the truth. He had been defying his Wyrdborn nature from the beginning, just as he'd shown me. It was no illusion meant to steal my trust, and I knew now, with the certainty of one about to die, that his affection had been real, too. I should be ashamed of the way I'd lost faith in him, but there was too little time for shame. As the blade sliced through my neck, I would give way completely to what I felt for him. I didn't need to deny any longer that I loved him.

The swordsman beside me planted his legs a little apart. The tip of his blade rested between his feet where I could see it. Then it was gone. He'd raised it above his head. I didn't dare look up, didn't dare move or even cry out in case it spoiled his aim and he left me to die slowly.

‘Tamlyn,' I whispered. And again, ‘Tamlyn.' I would say his name until the blow silenced my tongue. I wished I could close my eyes, but they were as stubborn as my heart, it seemed, and stared wide open and terrified at the ground. ‘Tamlyn.'

A grunt pierced the harbour's shrouded silence. It came from my executioner, a grimace of effort as he summoned the strength to cut downwards. The blow would surely follow instantly.

But moments passed and I was still alive. I jumped suddenly when the sword meant to kill me bounced on the stone of the jetty. Where there had been feet, now there were knees. The grip on me had vanished, and I looked at my executioner. He was kneeling beside me, his hands at his throat and tongue protruding. He groaned and fought for breath, but none would fill his lungs. His face was already crimson.

More movement, a little further away, made me look up. The man who had been holding me was backing away, aghast. The horror that had so recently contorted my own face had somehow escaped to his. When his stricken companion fell face first onto the jetty, he turned and fled.

I was still alive!

I climbed numbly to my feet and stood over the limp body that no longer gasped for breath, no longer moved. It was a weird parody of what should have happened. Why had our fortunes been reversed? The distant ringing of sword against sword from somewhere in the mist told me Tamlyn was struggling to save his own life. It wasn't he who'd rescued me.

I began to turn a circle in search for the cause and found it on the waters of the harbour. The rowing boat was still in view, but it wasn't stationary amid the fog any longer. It was slowly gliding towards the steps from where it had been launched only minutes before. Coyle stood in the stern, the hateful smile replaced by unrestrained awe as he stared, transfixed, at the tiny figure in the boat's bow. It was Lucien, no longer in his father's arms, no longer in need of his second mother to hold him upright. He stood with one hand steadying himself on the side of the boat, the other outstretched in the pose of command.

It wasn't Coyle's magic that propelled the boat towards the jetty. Lucien was making it happen with the force of his will alone. And as he drew closer, I saw his lips move and heard the word he formed with them, his first word. ‘May,' he called in the gentle voice of an infant. His little hand flexed as his fingers betrayed his longing to reach me. The boat finally bumped gently against the step where I had so recently surrendered him and from there he looked up at me in triumph.

‘Maymay,' he said and his face broke into a toothy smile.

It was the same smile he'd first shown me in Haywode, in a time and a place I barely remembered. And as it had done then, it turned the world around us both from silver to gold.

Book One:
Tamlyn

Silvermay's life has been spared, she once again has Tamlyn at her side and the attraction that has grown between them seems ready to bloom into love. Yet there is little time to savour their reunion. They must rescue little Lucien from the clutches of Coyle Strongbow before the foul magic of the Wyrdborn turns him into the monster depicted in the mosaics of Nan Tocha.

First, though, they must see to Ryall who is near death and only Silvermay's mother can save him. They return to Haywode where Ryall's survival calls for a terrible price. It is here, too, that word comes of murder in the capital; Tamlyn's mother is dead and there can be only one culprit.

Tamlyn becomes obsessed with revenge and amid such dark emotions, his Wyrdborn blood pushes aside the love he has shown for Silvermay. Worse still, he refuses to forsake his powers, should the chance come in the months ahead. Silvermay is devastated, for she knows that those who marry the Wyrdborn face a bleak and loveless fate.

Despite the rift between them, plans are made, new friends come to their aid and together they make a daring bid to free Lucien. It seems they have succeeded, too, until betrayal from the most unexpected quarter foils them and, suddenly, all that Silvermay loves is to be destroyed.

Without weapons or magic, can one girl turn back the killing hand and if she does, will she still want the man whom her heart won't surrender.

Book Two:
Lucien

Lucien has been rescued by Tamlyn and Silvermay, but time is running out for the child. His potent magic has seen him grow to a size of a ten-year-old, perilously near the age the ancient mosaics have shown him to be when he commenced his murderous deeds. They must take him, without delay, to Erebis Felan where the wizards can erase his powers.

Silvermay and Tamlyn embark on a desperate race across the ocean to the wizards' stronghold, but Coyle Strongbow learns of this and uses his Wyrdborn powers to control the sea, summoning up a hideous sea monster from its depths.

After a vicious skirmish, the fugitives reach Erebis Felan and Tamlyn realises that to achieve true happiness with Silvermay, he must submit to the wizards' magic and become one of the Common Folk. But Lucien's powers are beyond the wizards' ability to control.

And the danger is escalating. A Wyrdborn fleet has set sail for Erebis Felan determined to snatch Lucien
before his power can be turned on them. Only with Lucien's help can the wizards hope to gain the upper hand in the pitched battle that follows …

But Lucien has a further — and more ominous — battle to fight. Having realised the withering effects of his magic in the recent conflict with the Wyrdborn, he is appalled at his future as revealed in the ancient mosaics of Nan Tocha and fears that the only way out may be through his death. The wizards of Erebis Felan offer Lucien protection, but this sanctuary is shortlived.

When word arrives from Athlane that King Chatiny has died, Silvermay and Tamlyn must return to keep the peace in the absence of the Wyrdborn. The cost is high, for without his Wyrdborn powers, Tamlyn is no more than a brave warrior amongst others, and faces death in the battles to come …