A Blackbird In Silver (Book 1) (19 page)

‘Well, well,’ said Skord. He beckoned with an affected gesture and, dubiously, they followed him into the shop.

Ashurek whispered to Medrian and Estarinel, ‘Let us humour him for now, but be on your guard. His generosity is in a good cause.’

The merchant was waiting for them, like some bloated creature of prey, as they entered. He was a gross man, his brown hair and beard neatly oiled and groomed around his doughy face. Rich brocaded robes of red and gold ballooned around him.

‘Greetings, noble sir,’ he welcomed Skord. ‘I have been expecting you. I sincerely hope I can have the pleasure of being of service to you.’

‘I sincerely hope you can too, Mel Skara,’ replied Skord. ‘I have three companions who require travelling clothes, maps, good weapons; the best weapons, do you understand?’

‘Yes, the best weapons in Belhadra – nay, in Tearn! – are to be found here–’ The merchant broke off in mid-sentence, mouth hanging open as he took in Skord’s fellow travellers.

‘Ah yes,’ said Skord, ‘allow me to introduce my companions: Estarinel of Forluin; the Lady Medrian; and, ah, Prince Ashurek.’

Mel Skara swallowed nervously and cleared his throat.

‘Er yes – the best weapons. Would you be so kind as to come through to the back?’

They let him lead the way, following slowly and looking about them. The shop was a large, square, dusky room, red-tiled with an exotic fringed carpet. The merchant’s goods appeared unusual, expensive and select. Furniture of fine, dark wood; richly-bound books; tapestries and rugs of intricate design; ornaments of silver, gold and platinum. Yet, in this poor town, it seemed more a museum than a much-used shop.

They were led through an archway to a smaller room, lined with red velvet curtains. Here was everything a traveller could need: strong riding clothes, saddles and bridles, swords and shields. The scent of leather was evocative.

‘Here, good sirs and lady, you may choose whatever goods please you,’ said Mel Skara with an obsequious smile. ‘As you will observe, all are of the finest quality…’

‘Mel Skara,’ interrupted Skord in his cool, arrogant tone, ‘when my guests choose their clothes, allow them to use the mirror.’

An oily grin seeped over the merchant’s face. He bowed slightly. ‘Certainly, sir,’ he smiled.

Estarinel looked at Ashurek, who shrugged.

They were uneasy in the shop, yet there seemed to be no plot to imprison them. A side door was opened so they could fit their horses with saddles and bridles. And Skord sat on a pile of material in a corner, watching impassively as they chose weapons.

Ashurek noticed that although the weapons were fine and unused, all lay under a layer of dust. No one had bought a weapon here for many months, even for a few years. Belhadra no longer had an army then, and even knights and squires went unarmed. And a farmer’s son rode through the streets, lording it over a cowed populace. What was his source of power?

They each chose a keen steel sword and a long knife, and Medrian also took a good bow and a quiver of arrows. They all took shields of bonded leather and steel.

‘And now, most excellent lady and sirs,’ said Mel Skara, ‘I have clothing of the most superb quality, fine brocades in the Gorethrian style, tunics of silk, gazelle-skin boots…’

‘So we see,’ Ashurek remarked. ‘We just need strong travelling gear.’ He picked out a tunic of black linen, dark breeches, and boots of a soft black hide. The others chose equally undistinctive clothing; Estarinel a shirt, tunic and breeches of bronze-brown, with boots of russet leather, and Medrian similar garb in dark reds and greys. Then she and Ashurek chose full-length black cloaks with high collars; Estarinel took a similar one, slate-coloured.

‘Perhaps you would do me the honour of stepping behind this curtain, where you will find cubicles in which to try on the fine clothes you have so wisely–’

‘Spare us,’ Ashurek grimaced. Mel Skara’s face twitched nervously, but the three made their way between the red velvet hangings. He looked across at Skord, who gave a small, purposeful nod. Mel Skara reached out a portly arm and grasped a cord of maroon silk.

As the three re-emerged, tying laces and tightening belts, the merchant smiled graciously and waved towards a rich velvet curtain.

‘Allow me to reveal a mirror for your convenience.’ His plump hand pulled the cord. The red curtain slid back soundlessly and Estarinel found himself facing a large looking glass with a decorated rim; a still, silver lake waiting for their reflections to plumb its depths.

Then he stared at the mirror. What he saw was not his own reflection. Instead was looking at some other scene, something that should not have been in the mirror. He saw whiteness, like the White Plane, or like snow; he saw a scrawny bird of black; he saw an indistinct streak of silver, like a needle. And the nameless fear returned, and the words came to him, ‘A loss beyond bearing’. He did not see them, nor did he hear them; but the words were there.

It was as if the glass had found the core of his soul and reflected it with cruel incandescence; and it was calling him, sucking him down into its sweet silver-and-green depths to meet a cheerless fate. From a great distance he heard Ashurek cry, ‘Damn you!’ and then ‘Silvren!’ and Medrian uttered an inhuman groan of despair.

In an instant, everything they had seen was forgotten, even the mirror itself. Estarinel found himself staring at a velvet curtain, conscious of a slight headache. He felt faintly disorientated, but otherwise unaware that anything had happened.

‘The clothes look magnificent!’ the merchant exclaimed with too much feeling. Pearls of sweat stood on his face. He had served Skord well.

‘Mel Skara,’ the youth said, ‘rest assured that you will receive full reward for your services today…’

Mel Skara virtually prostrated himself with gratitude. He had had little trade in recent years, but his work for Her had more than recompensed him.

‘You are well pleased?’ Skord enquired of the three travellers.

‘We’re grateful,’ Estarinel said quietly.

‘Excellent!’ the merchant exclaimed. ‘And now I have maps, accurate and up-to-date, hand-drawn on finest linen…’

It was night in that dusty, disease-ridden town when they entered the inn. Skord had insisted generously that they guest there at his expense, and although they felt that they should leave Beldaega-Hal as soon as possible, they gave in without argument. The awful dehydration of Hrannekh Ol had taken its toll, and after two days’ riding they knew they must rest.

The inn was a square, red building without even a sign outside to distinguish it. Within the dimly-lit public room there was a low murmur of voices which abruptly died as the four entered. Skord strode across to the wooden bar that faced the entrance, but the others paused in the doorway and looked about them. Their gaze met pair after pair of sick, glazed, half-dead eyes, until their skin began to creep under the collective stare of the townspeople.

Almost every table in the inn was full, and every person there gazed unblinkingly at them; except for one woman who sat near the door, and she was weeping, slumped across the table with her head on her arms. She sat alone and the others ignored her.

‘I want four rooms for the night,’ Skord was saying to the landlord, a bulky, grey-haired man with a bitter face. The man paused in polishing a glass.

‘And who are your guests, sir?’

‘A knight, a lady, and a Prince,’ replied Skord in a tone that warned him not to pry.

‘A Gorethrian, sir?’ The landlord’s big-boned arms flexed as he began to work at the glass again. He had the air of a servant trying to pluck up courage to rebel against a despotic master.

‘Just ready the rooms and prepare us a meal, Skarred,’ Skord insisted. The landlord stammered, as if he must have an answer although the consequence of asking the question might be disastrous.

‘But the Gorethrians are our enemies, sir…’ and his face hung as if his very last hope of life had been dragged from him.

‘How can you have enemies, Skarred,’ said Skord, smiling, ‘when you have not a single friend?’ And he put three gold coins on the bar.

‘What do I want with your filthy money!’ cried the landlord. ‘Our only enemy is She, She whom we worship as a goddess, who is no better than the Worm! And She is your enemy too, whatever you tell yourself!’

Skord went white, as if Skarred had hit some truth.

‘Another word and you will be removed to a Region which will make this place seem like the fields of paradise.’

‘Do it then!’ the landlord cried, losing all control. ‘I would rather a million years in the Dark Regions than another minute looking at your wicked face, child! And word is your own father felt the same–’ he was trembling, possessed by fury and fear. But as Skord made to reply, he was silenced by Ashurek’s icy grip on his elbow.

‘Skord,’ the Gorethrian broke in, ‘perhaps I had better explain to Skarred. The Gorethrians are my enemies too. I have rejected them and all I perpetrated for them. We are only innocent travellers pursuing a personal goal. You have nothing to fear from us.’ He looked at Skord. ‘And I fail to see why you all exist in living terror of this boy.’ He glanced round the townspeople who had suddenly broken into a murmur of astonishment.

Skord began, ‘How dare you–’

‘Be silent,’ Ashurek commanded, and to the people’s surprise, he was. ‘Does he often carry out his frequent threats? By what power can he do this?’

‘By Her power. She To Whom We Pay Tribute,’ muttered the landlord. Skord folded his arms with an air of condescension.

‘So,’ said Ashurek, ‘this country is in the power of some sorceress and you are her servant?’ He stared unnervingly at Skord. ‘You speak with light abandon of the Dark Regions, but you are playing with fire. One slip and you will be down there yourself!’

And Skord began to look afraid. He turned on his heel and made quickly for a flight of stairs, disappearing upstairs without another word.

At once there was a relaxing of the atmosphere, as if the townspeople were silently celebrating Ashurek’s humiliation of Skord. With a gloomy expression, his mouth turned down at the corners, Skarred showed the three to a table and brought them a meal of dry bread and cheese so sour that it stung their mouths like acid. They ate swiftly, anxious to be out of the townspeople’s gaze.

‘I will show you to your rooms,’ the landlord said. They began to make their way to the stairs; but as Estarinel mounted the first step, Skarred took his arm. ‘In the name of mercy,’ he whispered, ‘don’t let your companion go on angering Skord. If he’s humiliated before us now he’ll bring all hell down on our heads later – and I’ve just signed my own death warrant for my loss of temper. We’re all sick of his terrorizing, but defy him and disaster follows.'

‘Do you know of a way we can stop him?’

‘No. There is no way. Kill him and She will just send another, a worse. And if She were in league with Gorethria, it would be the end for us…’

‘I don't think there’s any chance of that.’ Estarinel tried to reassure him. ‘We are only three travellers. We know nothing of Skord or the purpose for which he has befriended us.’

The landlord’s weary grey eyes widened. ‘Then don’t trust him – get away from him. He’d sell his own parents if the price suited.’

Estarinel nodded grimly, released himself from Skarred’s grip, and bade him good night. As they reached the doors to the cramped, dim rooms, Estarinel paused and looked round at Medrian.

‘I feel lost,’ he said wearily. ‘What are we doing here? Thousands of miles from anywhere we know, and further than ever from even starting the Quest. Is this what the Worm can do?’ Medrian turned the frozen grey-and-black shadows of her eyes upon him, and he knew immediately that their tenuous contact on the White Plane was lost. There seemed to be a sighing waste of ice between them, and fear clawed at his throat – fear of her.

‘Good night,’ was all she said.

#

She waited, as still as an icon, until the Forluinishman had gone tiredly into his room. Then she went to Ashurek’s door and entered without knocking. A lamp filled the chamber with an acid, lemony light. Ashurek, who had been peering out of the small window, looked sharply round at her.

‘Did you see what was in the mirror?’ she asked. The tone of her voice was cold, metallic.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Mel Skara’s mirror – reflected in the mercury.’ Ashurek’s icy green eyes met her blank ones.

‘Have you come in here to speak riddles?’ he asked harshly.

‘Just to say – you are wrong.’

‘About what?’

‘About this – this journey,’ she gasped, and he realised with what difficulty she was finding her words, as if something struggled to silence her. Her face was sallow with hidden pain, but he only felt angered.

‘Are you saying we should not have come with Skord?’ She nodded. ‘But tomorrow we go north to find a ship. It’s the only thing we can do now, isn’t it?’

‘It’s too late,’ Medrian answered.

‘Why?’

‘Because of the mirror.’

‘What did you see?’ he demanded, impatient.

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Convenient. Do you know something, or is this just a feeling?’ She was silent, and suddenly there was a presence between them; she was the Alaakian rebel, and he the Gorethrian oppressor. Fury and bitterness shook Ashurek, and Medrian felt an old malevolence awake and focus upon them. Anger flamed white in her face, but was gone in a second.

‘The Serpent can muster more hate for my race than Gorethria ever could,’ she said quietly. ‘But it’s all gone now, it doesn’t matter.’

‘Go. Just go, Medrian,’ Ashurek whispered, his hand straying involuntarily to his sword hilt. She turned slowly to the door.

‘I’m sorry you wouldn’t listen – sorry I could tell you nothing worth heeding anyway.’ she said, her voice as quiet and sinister as a distant iron bell.

#

Morning was again pale with a light drizzle that darkened the paving stones before them as they rode. The peasants fell back in their wake as they had the day before, staring, whispering, coming from their houses to the litter-strewn streets to watch the travellers leaving. Skord had hardly said a word that morning, but the look in his cold, foxy eyes turned often to burning anger when he looked at the Gorethrian; an awful look of hatred that did not appear to disconcert Ashurek.

As they rode, Skord in his finery at the front, the other three a little further back, talking quietly, a girl ran out from an alley and threw herself at Skord’s mare. Skord pulled his mount to a halt. The girl was shouting, barely coherently.

‘…take my respect and treat me like filth… witch’s bastard… you’d betray me for my just revenge… curse be on you as the curse She laid on me for you! I spit on your damned soul!’

The girl’s face, framed by tangled, flying dark hair, was sweat-streaked and crusted with sores. She clutched at Skord’s stirrup with emaciated hands. Skord looked away and dug his heels into his fretting mare’s sides. The crowd of peasants did nothing as the mare, mouth foaming, started forward skittishly. The girl seized Skord’s leg and began tugging at his cloak.

‘What revenge is there for me… oh, may your fall from Her favour be hard and terrible…’

Skord spurred his mare to a canter, but the girl still clung to him, and, losing her footing, was dragged along. Then there was a ring of metal as Skord drew his sword and dealt the girl a crunching blow on the head with the pommel. She fell, outstretching white, claw-like hands to tear at the boy’s robes as she collapsed to the flagstones. And Skord, in a clatter of hooves, was gone.

Ashurek sent Vixata into a gallop after the boy. Skord’s mare seemed to have wings and, as they reached the edge of the town, he disappeared as if by sorcery. Ashurek cursed and turned his blowing mare back into Beldaega-Hal.

None of the peasants drew near to the little white heap that was the girl. Estarinel dismounted and lifted her weightless frame. Her head fell backwards, disclosing the lifeless, contorted face and staring eyes. Despair stirred in him, as he was suddenly and terribly reminded of Sinmiel, dying in Falin’s arms.

‘She is dead,’ said Estarinel. He still held her up, looking round the faces of the townsfolk. A woman came towards him, weeping.

‘Give her to me,’ she said shortly. Once with the girl’s thin corpse in her arms, she vanished into the crowd; and within a few minutes they too had dispersed and withdrawn miserably into their own houses and dark alleys. The three travellers stood alone with the ugly red walls rising around them, rain pattering onto the pale flags from clouds through which the sun no longer shone.

Ashurek leaned forward and stroked Vixata’s golden neck.

‘The three of us alone again,’ he said. ‘The miscreant Skord has vanished. Do we interrogate the townsfolk, or continue on our original journey?’

They rode on at a walk. ‘What if Skord wreaks some kind of revenge on them?’ Estarinel asked. ‘We must try to help somehow.’

‘No, we must go on,’ said Medrian. ‘The Serpent comes before all else.’

‘I’ve never met anyone like you!’ Estarinel exclaimed. ‘How can you be unmoved by events in this town? How can you watch murder and not turn a hair?’

‘But she is right,’ Ashurek answered. ‘To stay here, fishing for an obscure and shallow source of evil, would be useless. The Worm is the root of this, and we must forge straight on to destroy it. Have you forgotten why you came?’

‘Oh gods, no,’ he whispered.

‘Neither have I. I want Silvren back; I want M’gulfn to perish, and the demons; and if the world is turned upside down and Gorethria destroyed also, so be it.’ The single-minded, obsessive purpose shone in his eyes and voice, and Estarinel knew that this man would destroy the world if it meant the Serpent’s death. He shuddered, emptiness tearing at his stomach.

‘I don’t want revenge,’ he said softly. ‘I just want my country back.’

‘That may be the same thing as revenge, in the end.’ Medrian sounded strange and distant. ‘But perhaps setting out to end your own pain by ending your own life is selfish… still, what does the motive matter?’

‘The motive is everything,’ said Ashurek, staring harshly at her. ‘Perhaps Estarinel’s is right and mine is wrong – but at least both are known. What of you? If you want to kill yourself, Medrian, there are quicker ways, if not surer ones.’

She half-opened her mouth as if to retort, but no sound emerged. Instead she became so pale, her expression so bleak, that Estarinel thought she was going to pass out. He felt angered by Ashurek’s harsh words and distressed by Medrian’s reaction. He wanted to shake both of them out of their unexplained hostility and coldness but realised, unhappily, that nothing he said was likely to help.

Briefly he remembered how, on the morning of the Serpent, he had related to Falin his dream of a woman with a pale face and dark hair. Had he had a premonition of meeting Medrian? If there was such a thing as precognition, why should he have dreamt of her, and not of the Serpent itself?

Medrian urged her black beast into a jog ahead of the others, forcing them to follow or lose her in the twisting streets.

‘Oh, only let us find a doorway to H’tebhmella,’ she said, as if there might be one around the next corner.

At that moment there was a sound of running footsteps behind them, and a voice shouting, ‘Wait! Wait!’