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CHAPTER NINETEEN

Alwenna picked at her breakfast in silence, wary of bringing on another bout of sickness. The refectory at Vorrahan was every bit as unwelcoming as the spartan guest chambers: walls of the same grey stone, with cold stone slabs underfoot, and a thin draught running beneath the doors at either end of the narrow hall. Goddess knew what the place was like in the depths of winter. Far colder, if the size of the empty hearth in the centre of one long wall was any indication.

Two female servants replenished the serving dishes on the two long tables – they were the first women she’d seen in the precinct. A low murmur of conversation filled the air as brethren came and went, their sandals slapping on the stone floor. Alwenna gave up trying to count how many monks there were. Likewise, she’d given up any pretence of eating and was debating whether she might leave Weaver to finish his breakfast and return alone to her lodgings when Father Garrad joined them at their table with an amiable greeting. As they exchanged polite small-talk she found herself inclined to agree with Weaver’s criticism that Garrad smiled too readily. Weaver, on the other hand, seemed less wary this morning, and chatted readily enough with Garrad. Weaver refilled their tankards with small beer when she thought he must have been ready to take his leave, and turned the conversation towards the lack of news from Highkell.

“I confess that troubles me.” Garrad’s smile was replaced with an expression of concern. “It might be as well for you to return to the mainland and see what news you can glean. After all, your charge is safe here with us now.”

Alwenna was certain Weaver would seize on the excuse to be on the move again, but he merely nodded and made a non-committal reply.

Garrad pushed his tankard away, making ready to stand. “You must, of course, do as you think fit. You will doubtless receive orders from the king soon enough. Now, I beg you will excuse me.”

Alwenna spoke up. “Father Garrad, when we arrived you spoke of a brother who wished to meet me – the master seer? Perhaps we should consult him first?”

Garrad smiled. “Brother Gwydion’s skill as seer was once unequalled, it is true, my lady. I ought to warn you he has slipped beyond reason these past years.”

The fellow did smile too much. “Nevertheless he is master seer. It is a matter of simple courtesy, is it not? I would not wish to offend the Order of Seers by neglect.”

Garrad pushed himself to his feet. “I doubt you will learn anything of import, my lady.”

“It was my husband’s specific request, Father Garrad.”

“If your husband were here today he would find Gwydion much altered, and not for the better. As for the seers, they have no interest in our doings here at Vorrahan, else they would have replaced Gwydion long ago. Times have changed.”

“Times may have changed, Father Garrad, but I will not permit any oversight on my part to deepen the divide with the south. I shall speak with the master seer. I trust you will make the necessary arrangements.”

Garrad glanced at Weaver. “What say you, Weaver? Your scepticism is a byword – has been ever since the Battle of Vorland Pass. Would you set any store by the ramblings of an old man in his dotage?”

Weaver turned his tankard about on the table, glancing towards Alwenna before he spoke. “The king made his wishes clear when we left Highkell. It’s not my place to question his orders.”

Garrad inclined his head. “Very well. Brother Drew will take you to meet the master seer later today.” He bowed to Alwenna. “In the meantime, I suggest you ask Weaver to tell you how he was the only one able to defeat an enemy champion steeped in dark lore.”

“Vorland Pass was many years ago, father.” Weaver’s tone was mild enough, but the hand holding his tankard had stilled.

“But it made you the man you are today. You should tell the lady that tale, Weaver. All of it.” Garrad withdrew.

Weaver waited until the priest was out of earshot. “It pains me to say it, my lady, but it might be as well to heed Garrad’s advice. I’ve heard nothing good about this master seer.”

“What harm can one old man do?”

“Why ask, my lady, when you have no intention of heeding my reply?”

“Father Garrad needs to learn I shan’t dance to his tune.” Surely he could see that, after the doubts he’d expressed about Garrad’s trustworthiness? “He was too keen to dissuade me. And what was all that business about Vorland Pass?”

Weaver merely shrugged and stood, ready to leave the table.

“Wait, Weaver, what did he mean?”

“There’s little enough to it. Suffice to say ever since I’ve been renowned for the thickness of my skull.” His tone wasn’t encouraging.

“In other words, you won’t tell me.”

“You’ve been close enough with your own secrets, my lady, let me keep mine.”

So, he still nursed resentment that she and Tresilian had not confided in him. “I had good reason not to tell you.”

“As have I, my lady.” Weaver’s tone made it clear the subject was closed.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Alwenna was surprised when Brother Drew, taking them to the master seer, led them out of the precinct gates and set off towards a rocky outcrop several hundred yards away. The outcrop was split from top to bottom by a gaping cave mouth.

Alwenna hesitated as they drew close enough to see the well-trodden path leading to the gash in the rock. “We must go in there?”

“That’s right, my lady. It’s been a hallowed site since ancient times. It is the true source of the Holy Well we passed on the way up here. All the water for Vorrahan precinct comes from here.” The novice had a great deal more to say for himself outside the confines of the precinct.

Drew led the way inside the cave. It narrowed rapidly to form an uneven passage, forcing them to stoop. The familiar panic welled in Alwenna’s chest and she stopped so abruptly that Weaver, following behind, bumped into her.

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t. There’s no room, no air.” She backed up. “Let me out.”

Weaver stood his ground. “The air’s good.”

“No, it’s not.” She twisted around, gasping for breath, and tried to push her way past him, but he pinned her arms to her sides.

“Steady. You were set on doing this.”

She was ready to lash out at him – she couldn’t stay here, in the near dark. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think…

Then Brother Drew returned, carrying a lantern. “The path widens again, my lady. It’s not far. Ten yards at most.”

The light dispelled some of her unease. The novice set off again, more slowly, and she picked her way along the passage behind him, not so much supported by Weaver as impelled forward by him. Then they stepped out into a broad cavern and she could breathe again. She stood there, gulping air while the trembling of her limbs eased, aware that Weaver was studying her.

Two priests in the drab robes favoured by the order stepped forward to block Weaver’s path. “You must wait here.”

“As long as the lady doesn’t leave my sight.”

The priest who had spoken inclined his head to one side. “She is safe within our shrine.” A cold smile flickered over his face. “If you will not trust the word of the ordained then you must trust the evidence of your own eyes. For what little that is worth.”

Beyond the light from Drew’s lantern the chamber was dim. As Alwenna’s eyes adjusted she could make out a robed figure seated on a dais at the far side. Spluttering torches reflected on the mirror-smooth floor. Only when something small splashed into it, sending out ripples across the surface, did she realise it was water. Two torches marked a stone causeway across the pool to the dais. The cavern floor which she had to cross shifted and shivered before her.

“You may approach the master seer, my lady.” The priest’s voice now was respectful.

Alwenna waited for a sign of agreement from Weaver. After a moment he nodded.

She took three steps before something flipped against her foot; she froze. A frog hopped away into the shadows beyond reach of the torchlight: no ordinary frog, but a pallid creature, almost luminescent in the way its pale flesh reflected the torchlight. The floor of the cavern was covered with similar creatures, clambering over one another as they moved aside, clearing a path to the causeway. She suppressed a shudder and stepped forward with renewed caution, guessing from the tiny scufflings that the amphibians had closed in behind her.

“You have nothing to fear from my pretties, Lady Alwenna. And nothing to fear from me.” The old man spoke slowly, as if the words required great effort, but she recognised his voice. She’d heard it in dreams almost as long as she could remember, ever since the night her parents died. “As for your companion, he puts all his trust in a yard of steel and will never believe what he cannot see for himself. Yet that may prove useful, sooner than you think.”

The seer raised two gnarled hands and lifted clear his hood, revealing a face etched with heavy age lines, his head hairless and his skin almost as pale as the frogs that scrambled about the chamber. But most startling of all, his red-rimmed eyes were clouded. The master seer was blind.

“The human senses are remarkable. I have no need of worldly vision to see into the realms of the future; not when I see through other eyes.”

“Is that why you summoned me here – to tell me the future?”

“I would help you. You have travelled far since you first arrived at Highkell as a frightened child. You need have no fear of the darkness. Alidreth’s blood runs in your veins, pure and undiluted.”

It was not darkness she feared, but she held her peace. Why had Tresilian told her to seek out this old man? “How would you help me now?”

“Your exile may be of greater duration than you believe, my child. That much is clear. Also…” He drew a sighing breath.

She knew why he hesitated, even as she framed her question. “You have news of Tresilian?”

“Alas, no. Tresilian has fallen into darkness. But this you already knew, had you trusted your sight.”

Could she believe this strange old man? She glimpsed Weaver step forward, but one of the priests restrained him with a silent gesture. She ought to have heeded Weaver’s advice in the first place.

Gwydion drew breath with difficulty. “There are things you do not yet know: by spilling the blood of his own kin in his family’s stronghold, Vasic has sealed his fate. That cannot be changed. And his kin’s blood will rise against him soon enough. You must prepare, for Tresilian’s children will need your strength.”

This was all impossible. She’d told none but Weaver of that dream. How could Gwydion know of it? The old man’s head sagged forward, as if he’d dropped into a deep sleep. Behind her she heard minute shufflings and didn’t need to glance over her shoulder to know the frogs moved closer.

Gwydion raised his head, eyes open. “It is time. Take my hands, Alwenna, relict of Tresilian of Highkell, true daughter descendant of the High Seer Alidreth.”

Alwenna took half a step closer to his seat, then hesitated. The air resonated with tension, as if every creature present held its breath. Could she trust this old man? Should she?

“You need never fear the darkness.” He smiled and reached out, palms uppermost. “Take my hands, kinswoman.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Weaver watched with foreboding as Alwenna reached for the old man’s hands. Tresilian had wanted this meeting but every instinct was telling Weaver to call her away. The frogs carpeting the chamber stilled, as if of one mind. Weaver tried to step forward but the priests on either side caught him by the arms and he found himself held still by more than physical means.

The old man’s fingers closed over Alwenna’s.

For a moment all remained silent, then she gasped and her body stiffened. “No!”

Her scream echoed round the chamber. Weaver fought to throw off the two priests but they pinned him back against the wall.

“You mustn’t interfere. The shock could kill her.”

The frogs began creeping towards the edge of the pool, their attention focused on the dais where Alwenna seemed frozen in the grip of the old man. Then Gwydion released her abruptly and fell back in his seat, gasping for breath. Alwenna swayed, half turned towards Weaver, then crumpled to the ground. Weaver struggled between the two priests while she lay motionless where she had fallen.

Unnaturally still.

Then she stirred and dragged herself up onto her hands and knees.

“How could you?” Her words carried across the still water.

“No time.” The old man slumped in his seat, chest rising and falling as if he had run a race. “My last gift… to you.”

“A gift, you call it?” She pushed herself to her feet. “A gift?” Her voice grew shrill.

“The knowledge of ages.” He drew in a harsh breath. “There is… no greater gift.”

“What use is knowledge without understanding?”

“It is… your life’s blood.” The words cost him dear. Gwydion drew in one last rattling breath, then his head slumped to one side.

A thousand frogs scrambled forward and plunged into the dark water. Without looking back, Alwenna strode across the causeway as the priests released Weaver. She reached the main chamber as the last of the frogs disappeared underwater, leaving nothing but ripples perturbing the surface.

“Are you hurt?” Weaver reached out to support her, but she pushed him away. Drew gaped as she dashed headlong past him down the narrow passage that had caused her so much difficulty earlier. Weaver followed.

She didn’t stop running until she reached the Holy Well. There she stooped over the stone basin: not to drink, but to wash her hands, over and over. Finally she sat back on the grassy bank of the stream that overflowed from the basin. Weaver went to sit beside her, but not too close.

She tucked her knees up and wrapped her arms about them, hunching forward and staring at the water. “I suppose you’re going to say you told me so.”

“No. But I should have stopped him.”

She picked up a twig and began snapping it into short lengths. “Do you think Tresilian meant that to happen?”

This was the point to admit he had no idea what he’d just witnessed. “Garrad said Gwydion was much changed.”