0857664360 (8 page)

The main access to the master seer’s cave followed a natural fault line in the rock. Drew knew where the floor rose sharply enough to trip the unwary, and just where to duck his head as the tunnel narrowed overhead. Brother Francis stood on guard at the end, blocking the entrance to the cavern.

“Don’t disturb him. He’s deep in meditation,” the older monk hissed. Francis had been serving Gwydion for most of his forty years and his face had the same pallor from so many hours spent in the dark.

Torchlight glinted off still water in the cavern beyond Brother Francis. On a small island in the centre of the pool the master seer sat motionless on a robust chair, his hands resting on the wooden arms. His robes hung slack over angular knees while his eyes focused ahead on some point in the middle distance. At these moments he looked impossibly old and frail. A tremor ran through his body and he drew a sharp breath, like a man stepping into icy water, then he turned his head towards Drew.

“Ah, Drew. Brother Francis, you may leave us. It is high time you broke your fast.”

“As you order, master.” Francis bowed, and shuffled away down the rock passage, casting a surly glance at Drew as he left.

Gwydion waited until Francis’ footsteps had retreated out of hearing range before speaking again. “You heard my call, Drew. That is excellent.” He raised his hands in a gesture of benediction, executed with surprising grace for one of his advanced years. No one at Vorrahan knew for sure how old Gwydion was, but all agreed he must have been eighty if he was a day.

It was tempting to bask in the unaccustomed praise, but in truth Drew had sensed nothing: no call, not even a whisper. “I– I don’t think so, Brother Gwydion. Father Garrad dismissed me for the night, so I decided to come here.”

“I’m sure he did not order you to come here.” The old man smiled, as if explaining something to a child who was slow of understanding.

“No, that is true. He suggested I help in the kitchen.”

“But you had a sudden inclination to come here instead?”

“Well, no…” Then he thought. He had planned to go to the library to see if the brother there could help him further with his letters. Could the old man be right? Did he have the mystical power?

“Of course, lad. That’s how it works. At first you won’t even notice its promptings, but as you become attuned, you’ll see ever more readily. The sight will visit you more often once it has found the way.” He settled his hands on the chair arms once more, and rested his head back against the wooden panel. “You have much to learn if you are to take your place as a seer. I was taught much in my time and I would pass on that knowledge. Those who possess the gift are fewer and fewer with every year. And here in the west…”

The old man lapsed into silence, his expression taking on that far-off look that Drew had come to recognise as a visitation by the sight. Gwydion’s breathing slowed, and Drew watched with closer attention than usual. The notion that he too possessed the sight was an enticing one. Might he one day ascend to the rank of seer, perhaps really be heir to Gwydion’s learning? Oh, yes, he watched closely as never before. Gwydion’s breathing deepened, as if he took every ounce of strength from each inward breath then held that strength as he exhaled. The man’s body stilled, as the breaths came further and further apart and his eyelids closed. Yet this was not some idle doze, but a state somehow attuned to the silence surrounding them. Drew settled down with his back against the cavern wall to watch and wait.

Finally Gwydion stirred. Gnarled fingers twitched in an effort to raise his hands from the arms of the chair where he had remained immobile for the past hour or more. Drew pushed himself to his feet, ready to lend assistance, but Gwydion raised one shaking hand to stop him.

“These old bones grow loath to do my bidding. Bring Brother Francis to help me, lad. I must speak with Father Garrad.”

Drew did not have far to go to find Brother Francis: he was hurrying up the slope to the cave entrance, ungainly in his haste, a lantern bobbing wildly in his hand.

Drew waited by the entrance. “Brother Gwydion wishes to speak to Father Garrad. He–”

Francis gestured him out of the way. “I know what my master requires. Your gift is not as rare as you would like to think, boy. Nor as powerful.” Francis pushed past Drew and ducked into the tunnel. His sandals slapped on stone as he hurried across the cavern to Gwydion’s side.

“Master, you must save your strength.” Francis bent low beside Gwydion, taking the frail hand in his own.

“I have a vain fancy to feel daylight on my face one last time.”

“Master, you must not speak so. And besides, it is night now.”

“Is it so? That is a shame. I would have preferred sunlight.” Gwydion pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. “Help me now, Francis. You, too, Drew. I need you both.”

“But master, can this not wait until morning, when you are rested?” Francis supported the old man by the arm, not sparing a glance for Drew as he hurried to take his other arm.

“No, Francis, it cannot wait. I have seen the end and it is not far distant. But I have seen other things, too. Garrad must heed my words this time. He thinks me an old fool lost in the shadows, beyond reach of reason. He cannot understand the darkness as I do.” With their support he shuffled towards the entrance. “And if our good father does not pay heed this time, I fear the darkness will engulf him.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Alwenna woke at a hand shaking her shoulder. She sat up with a start, shivering, trying to recall where they’d halted the night before. The days had merged in an exhausting round of too many hours spent in the saddle interspersed with too few hours of sleep.

“I’ve brewed some kopamid.” Weaver held an earthenware beaker out towards her.

Of course, they’d stopped in the forest some time after dark. Weaver had been short with her since the incident on the ridge. This had to be his way of apologising.

“You lit a fire?” She rubbed her eyes, then surveyed the surrounding forest for a discreet place for her morning ablutions. Fires and hot drinks were all very well, but what she missed most on this journey was the privacy of a garderobe.

“We’ll be gone soon enough. I thought you might be glad of it.” Unsmiling, he pressed the hot beaker into her hands.

“Thank you.” She inhaled the rich aroma, stronger than she remembered it. “I haven’t tasted kopamid for a long time.”

“I brought this back from The Marches. It’s good for a chill morning.”

She sipped at the drink, relishing the sensation of the hot fluid coursing down her throat. “I’ve missed this.” She needn’t tell Weaver her thoughts concerning garderobes. “You’ve been in The Marches recently? Was that–”

A rush of nausea knotted her stomach, insistent, unrelenting. She clambered to her feet and managed to dash to the cover of the trees before she was overtaken by violent retching. The sickness persisted until long after her stomach was empty, leaving her doubled over, trembling and sweating.

“Can I bring you anything?” Weaver must have followed her. And, no doubt, witnessed the whole sorry episode.

Alwenna straightened up, still shaking. “Some water?” Her voice cracked.

He handed her his costrel. She turned away as she swilled her mouth then spat away the foulness, willing him to go back to the fire and wait there.

He remained at her side. “Was it the kopamid? It didn’t taste bad.”

“No. It was fine.” The effort of speaking abraded her throat.

“Do you have a fever?”

“No, I’m well.” She rinsed and spat again. If only he’d leave her in peace. “It’s never been so strong before.”

He frowned. “The kopamid?”

“No…” Don’t tell anyone, Tresilian had said.

“You can’t afford to be taken ill now. Do you need a healer?”

“It’s passed. I’ll manage.”

Weaver studied her, his expression sceptical. “Very well, my lady. I’ll saddle the horses.”

When Alwenna returned to their camp site Weaver handed her a dry oatcake. She picked at it, aware of his covert scrutiny as he made ready to leave. The half-empty beaker, now cold, perched on the mossy ground where she’d abandoned it. She didn’t dare drink it, even though her stomach had settled. Nor did she wish to offend Weaver by discarding the remains. It was the first friendly gesture he’d made in the days they’d been travelling.

As if he’d read her mind Weaver stooped and picked up the beaker, slinging the contents into the bushes before he stowed it in a saddlebag. When he’d finished, Alwenna climbed to her feet and made her way over to her horse. Without speaking, Weaver legged her up into the saddle.

“Thank you.” Her voice grated in her throat. Weaver nodded curt acknowledgment, his mouth set in a grim line. This promised to be a long day.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Weaver glanced across at Alwenna, who sat at the foot of a smooth-trunked beech. She’d slept badly. Of course, she’d not admit it. The shadows beneath her eyes left him in no doubt, if the telling silences between her nightmares hadn’t been evidence enough. She didn’t speak of the horrors that stalked her sleep, but each morning she was a little paler. And she’d been too pale to start with. The sooner he could hand her over to the care of the brethren at Vorrahan, the better.

“With luck we might reach the ferry in time to cross tonight.”

“I’d no idea we were so close.” She took a bite of dry oatcake. “It’ll be–” One hand pressed to her stomach, she jumped to her feet and hurried away between the trees.

Weaver followed a couple of paces, then stopped. He could do nothing to help, and she’d only resent his interference. She returned a few minutes later, pale and dishevelled. He offered her some water and she took it with an unsteady hand, murmuring a word of thanks.

“There’s a town a few miles out of our way; we should be able to find you a healer there. I doubt Vasic’s spies will have penetrated this far north.”

“There’s no need.” She didn’t meet his eyes.

“There’s every need. You’re eating next to nothing and losing most of that.”

“I’m fine if I eat often enough.” She hesitated, then seemed to reach some kind of decision. “Wynne told me what to expect. It’s a good sign, she said.”

“Wynne?” Realisation dawned, and with it disbelief that he had not guessed sooner. “You’re carrying.” Even to his ears the words sounded like an accusation.

She kept her eyes averted.

“Yet you didn’t see fit to tell me? Does Tresilian know?”

“Of course.” She swung round to face him, drawing herself up to her full height. “He said we must keep it secret as long as possible.”

“But what if something had gone wrong? It’s madness.”

“Nothing has gone wrong.”

“By some miracle. You should have been travelling by carriage in easy stages, resting in proper beds at night. I should have been told.”

She turned her back on him and began rolling up her blanket.

“I’ll get the horses ready.” His words elicited no response. “Take all the time you need.”

She spun round, glaring at him. “I don’t need any more time than I did yesterday, or the day before, or any other day. I swear if we do reach Vorrahan tonight it won’t be a moment too soon.”

For once they were in total agreement. Weaver saddled the horses in silence.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Alwenna’s stomach churned at the sight of the waves fretting beneath a leaden sky. Through the rain squalls she could just make out grassy slopes and rocks jutting above the water across the sound. The boat waiting by the small jetty looked impossibly flimsy as the waves roiled behind it.

“We’re going to cross in that tiny thing?”

It was small wonder Weaver looked surprised when she addressed him directly. They’d barely spoken since the morning’s disastrous start. “There’s a larger ferry a couple of hours to the north, but this way’s faster.”

So they’d be rid of one another the sooner. He had to be looking forward to that. She was. “What about the horses?”

“We won’t need them on the island. The precinct has grazing nearby. They’ll be kept there for the time being.”

A boy emerged from the ferryman’s hut on the shoreline and took the horses’ reins. Weaver handed him a couple of coins and he led the horses away through the trees. Alwenna fought a sudden urge to follow after them. She could tell Weaver this was a mistake and order him to take her back to Highkell before it was too late.

“My lady? The boat’s ready.”

Wind whipped Alwenna’s hair from under her hood as she clambered down from the rudimentary jetty into the rocking boat and seated herself in the very centre. She gripped the cold plank as the oarsman took his place and water slapped against the sides, splashing over and sullying her cloak with dark spots. The boat wallowed as Weaver climbed in and sat facing her, then the ferryman lowered his oars into the water and pulled back with practised ease. With a grinding of the oars against the locks they drew away from the sheltered jetty and out onto open water.

A fresh onslaught of rain all but obscured her vision as they pulled out from the shelter of the trees on the mainland; it pelted against her cheeks, stinging her eyes, weighing down her cloak. She clung there, wretched, sliding on the wooden seat as the boat pitched on the growling water. Her world dwindled until she was trapped in a limbo devoid of all sound but the buffeting of the wind and the grind, lap, slap of the oars, devoid of all sensation but the stinging rain and dull tug of nausea at the pit of her stomach.

Then, when she thought couldn’t resist the heaving of her stomach another moment, the ferryman pulled them into the lee of a wooded promontory and they cut through calmer water until the bottom of the boat crunched on a shingle beach.

She clambered from the boat, leaning on the hand Weaver offered for support as her body deceived her into believing the ground still pitched beneath her feet. When she was able to pay more attention to her surroundings she saw three figures, clad in drab monastic robes, approaching the beach. The robes and hoods looked oddly familiar. She stared, unable to recall when she had seen them before.

“Is something wrong?” Weaver kept his voice low, so the boatman could not overhear.