Betrayal (16 page)

‘Get up, boy. Let’s have a look at you then.’ Since his anxiety had dissipated at the sight of Cyrus, Lorys was now highly amused. He loved to see Merkhud unnerved, as he clearly was. ‘Come on, Merkhud.
You’ve been grumbling about his tardy arrival. Here he is, safe and sound.’

‘What happened here? How could you both be here?’ Merkhud could not stop the questions tumbling out.

‘The…er…Prime asked me to ride with him to Tal. Initially I said no but thought better of it, and I caught up and er…got involved in his…um…troubles.’ Tor fought his embarrassment. He knew Merkhud could not reveal that he had been tracking his progress all along by magical means—not in front of this audience anyway. There would be time later for explanations.

The King groaned. ‘What does it matter, Merkhud? He’s here and the Prime lives.’

Cloot chose that moment to arrive back on Tor’s shoulder.

‘And the bird?’ Merkhud could not hide his disbelief.

‘A finer bird, Physic Merkhud, you’ll not see in all of Tallinor,’ Cyrus blurted. ‘I watched the boy win him during a devilish hand of hari at the The Empty Goblet. He was the envy of all there.’

‘Yes.’ Tor picked up the lead from Cyrus. ‘It was on the second night and I didn’t know what I was going to do with a falcon but the bird seemed to take to me,’ he said, affectionately scratching the top of Cloot’s feathered head. ‘I don’t know why I even joined the game,’ he lied smoothly.

‘Too much ale, lad, but you played like a demon,’ laughed Cyrus and the King joined in.

‘Hari is addictive, lad. You’d better forget it and concentrate on your studies,’ the King said, looking at Merkhud and enjoying the way his whiskers twitched.

‘I will, your majesty, I promise.’

Lorys became businesslike again. ‘Good. Now, Cyrus, are you strong enough to brief me on this mysterious tale?’

‘Of course, your majesty. Please, let’s sit.’ Cyrus pointed to beneath a nearby oak, then reconstructed the events from as far back as Cloot’s humiliation in the marketplace, when he first met Tor. Cyrus was very careful not to mention names as he pieced together the story. To Tor’s silent and heartfelt thanks, he remarked, almost incidentally, that the injured cripple had last been seen hobbling out of the town’s gates.

‘Probably died before he was a mile down the road,’ Tor added daringly.

Everyone nodded with a discernible lack of interest.

Only Tor heard the falcon chuckle.

Nanak, there has to be a connection!

Never one to waste words, Nanak, keeper of the Paladin, kept his own counsel whilst he thought through Merkhud’s suggestion that Cloot the Brocken, the Second of the Paladin, had re-emerged in Hatten at the same time as Torkyn Gynt, their only link to the Trinity, had arrived in the town.

I want to believe that none of the Paladin die, Merkhud, but this might be reaching. A falcon, you say?

Nanak…think! Cloot is a Brocken name. It is not even a common one. No Tallinese would give their son the name of Cloot. So Tor’s story of his mother singing some Tallinese ballad is a sham. I don’t understand it either, but very little of your or my life makes much sense, does it? You reacted with cynicism when I first mentioned Cyrus, but this is no coincidence, my friend: Prime Cyrus and this Cloot are of the Paladin.

Merkhud waited for Nanak to say something, to contradict him, to come up with something to refute this idea. But there was silence across the link.

He continued thinking aloud.
My only confusion is when and why this Cloot changed into a strange bird.

Nanak spoke at last.
Why do you call the bird strange?

Oh, I don’t know. It’s as though they communicate. I can’t swear it but they work in tandem. I’ve tried every conceivable magic to eavesdrop but there’s nothing. It could be my imagination but, Light, man, think of it. What if our Cloot and Cyrus have returned as guardians to Tor? It reinforces that he is the One.

Nanak felt his heart beating with excitement. No one was closer to the Paladin than Nanak, and his resolve cracked further each time one of them fell to Orlac’s magic. He had wept most recently when Sallementro disappeared. Each death brought such heartbreak, but he had held. He had found the
strength to encourage and nurture his remaining guardians.

Give me one more name, Merkhud, and I’ll accept and rejoice with you.

I’ll find that name for you, Nanak. You will believe it. The wheels are turning. The Host was right.

Well, where are the others? Where are Juno and Saxon and Adongo? If Cloot and Cyrus are back, why aren’t the others showing themselves?

I don’t know
, muttered Merkhud, feeling beaten by the questions but determined he was right.
We wait. If I’m right, they will show themselves soon.

As she strolled alongside the old girl and her fractious donkey, Alyssa could not remember a time when she had felt happier, other than when she was with Tor. Initially he had rarely left her thoughts and often during those first weeks, from Twyfford towards Mexford Cross, she had thought about swallowing one of the old girl’s lethal confections and ending her misery. More recently though, as the summer lengthened into autumn, she had come to think about him without tears. Alyssa had made a deliberate effort to keep Tor her own. His memory remained a tender hurt but it was his silence which was the most maddening of all; whenever she tried to cast to him it felt leaden. Alyssa believed he had simply shut her out and that had shocked her into not trying again for a while.

Now, however, as she poked around at the thick nothingness, she began to believe it was a veil not of
Tor’s making. It did not feel like one of Tor’s shepherding tricks, as he liked to call them. Tor’s were powerful, with a strong, unmistakable signature to them. This seemed infinitely more subtle; its neat, almost fastidious trace nothing she could actually get hold of. The scent always trailed away. Was someone deliberately blocking communication between the two of them? She suspected it was the old man who had made Tor behave so strangely, but how did he know of their link and why would he want to block it?

Leaving Mallee Marsh so suddenly and with a complete stranger had been uncharacteristic for her too. Sometimes she could barely believe she had done it. But if she recalled the moment when she had begged Sorrel to allow her to go with her, Alyssa knew she had been distraught. She also knew that without this distraction of being with Sorrel and hopefully embarking on some sort of new beginning, she would have fallen apart. With a father like Lam Qyn, getting through each day was hard enough, but without Tor to give her hope there would have been no point to life at all. Alyssa knew there were other young men who would happily marry her but she would not happily marry anyone but Torkyn Gynt. They were meant to be together for ever.

And so she had taken her first steps alongside Sorrel and immediately had begun to feel released from the dead weight of her own life. They walked far each day and she loved listening to the old girl’s stories of life on the road. She especially liked to learn the herblore which Sorrel shared. Alyssa learned how
whistlewort could calm the rage of a sore throat and, when boiled and mixed with honey, made a useful linctus for a cough. Teppenny pasted on a wound or ulcer would ensure it healed faster; nettle, mint and dandelion made the best infusion for bronchitis whilst the oil of the lemonbark mixed with that of lavender would soothe earache quicker than anything. She loved the new world which Sorrel offered to her, not just her plants but walking the Kingdom itself. Alyssa’s furthest trip to date had been to Twyfford Cross once with Tor and his father.

She liked Tor’s parents. They were firm but kind and so loving towards their son and indeed her. Alyssa showed more open affection for them than for her own father, though she loved him dearly. She just did not understand him. Tor was lucky. He was loved. She had no love in her life but his and she had clung to that love fiercely. How could he have left her? She knew her act of leaving the Marsh sprang mostly from anger. The fury she felt at his loss had given her the courage needed to walk off with a stranger to who knew where. She admitted quietly to herself that she was really just treating him in the same manner he had treated her. Alyssa hoped he might come looking for her, which is why she deliberately had left no word for him. She hoped he would worry himself sick over where she might be; and now he would never know because she had no idea herself where they were going.

Her mind rolled these thoughts over, day after day, as she walked alongside Sorrel, her hand resting
loosely on Kythay’s shoulder, while the curious trio made their slow journey north west, away from the Kingdom’s capital.

‘Where did you say we were headed?’ Alyssa said absent-mindedly as she chewed on a grass stem.

Sorrel did not answer immediately. Her attention had caught on a cluster of small blue and white flowers nestling in the thick grasses beneath the trees.

‘Aha! Jolliker petals make a wonderful tonic for bellyache. Remember them, my girl, they’re hard to come by and best picked early autumn, like now.’

She motioned for Alyssa to help. Kythay ceased his ponderous tread at the same time as Alyssa stopped walking. She had the animal totally under her control and he never needed more than a polite word from her to co-operate. It regularly frustrated Sorrel that this stubborn, grumpy animal made himself so easy to get along with where Alyssa was concerned.

‘Wretched animal,’ she muttered for the umpteenth time as she bent her weary back to gather her precious petals.

The two women worked quietly whilst Kythay chewed on whatever treats he could find nearby. When the midday sun began to bite into their skin Sorrel straightened with a groan.

‘We’re headed for Ildagarth,’ she said finally, settling down to rest awhile. She eyed the girl who was still busying herself with the flowers, throwing them into a tiny sack.

‘Oh? What’s there for us?’ Alyssa swatted at a gnat and dragged the back of her hand over her dry lips.

She had blossomed in the three weeks they had been together, Sorrel noted, filling out with the regular meals they shared. She had been such a skinny thing; now she had curves. The brisk walking along these roads had made her stronger too and encouraged a honeyed glow to her lovely skin.

At first she had been quiet; she had stayed close to Kythay and said little other than to answer Sorrel’s gentle questions. Now, weeks since that afternoon when she had manipulated the girl into joining her, Alyssa was talkative and lively with reams of questions of her own. She laughed a great deal more too. Perhaps the loss of Tor was less keen…or possibly not—it was just that the girl had more interest in her life now, walking the roads of Tallinor. Whatever it was, it was doing her a power of good. The girl looked radiant.

She was sharp too. Sorrel noted how quickly she absorbed the lore of herbs and plants; she would easily be able to earn money alongside her. Not that they had needed any money yet, however. Merkhud had seen to it that Sorrel’s purse was heavy, though she had not revealed her wealth to Alyssa. She continued to mutter that they would have to look for work soon but at each village put it off until tomorrow. Alyssa seemed to be looking forward to putting her new skills to work. So far they had spent much time gathering useful plants and herbs but they had not attempted to sell any remedies yet. All in good time, Sorrel said.

She did not want to draw attention to herself or Alyssa. She needed time to get to know the girl better,
especially as Alyssa had begun slowly to drop her guard, probably because of the tranquil pace and outdoor life. If they were to locate themselves in a village and begin working, it could be a different story.

Sorrel realised she had still not answered Alyssa’s question about why they were headed for Ildagarth. ‘Well, I’ve not been to that part of the Kingdom for a good many years and it seems as good a place as any,’ she lied. She stretched in a deliberately casual manner. ‘Besides, near Ildagarth is Caremboche. Have you heard of this place?’

Alyssa shook her head. She returned to sit beside the munching Kythay, pushing away golden wisps of glinting hair which had escaped her loose plait. The donkey turned and nuzzled her and she whispered something to him.

Sorrel continued. ‘Caremboche is the ancient place where the Seat of Knowledge was located—once an opulent city filled with sorcerers and academics, artists and craftsmen, where their skills were openly encouraged and passed on. Two centuries on, it is a mere shadow of its former glorious self but the Academie remains. I’d like you to see it.’

She noted Alyssa’s lack of interest and decided not to pursue the conversation further. Instead she veiled and cast.

Greetings, my love. How do you fare?
replied the smooth voice.

We are both well, Merkhud, approaching Fragglesham. With luck we’ll reach Mexford by the next moon.

There was a sigh of relief.
That’s good news. Does she know?

No. She is barely interested. Are you sure about this?

I am. He comes. We’ll talk soon.
Before Sorrel could respond, the link was sharply closed.

Sighing deeply and wondering at the seeming pointlessness of her life, she suggested to her companion that they should push on to Fragglesham which was now within a few hours reach. They did better, reaching the bustling town much sooner than planned, and immediately found themselves a room at The Wheatsheaf.

The famous travelling show, Cirq Zorros, was encamped on Fragglesham Green. Tiered benches had been erected and the wildly coloured pennants which lined the arena lifted and flapped in a lazy breeze. The northern fringe of the Green was a maze of small tents and awnings which housed the performers and their animals. At the southern end, brightly painted sideshow stalls had been set up close to the main entrance. In between roamed what looked like a town within a town: dozens of travelling performers, keepers and stall owners preparing for the evening’s show.

Alyssa was enchanted by the scene. ‘I’ve only ever heard about Cirq Zorros. I can’t believe it’s here!’

Sorrel was not impressed. This would slow them down for sure. In fact she was surprised that The Wheatsheaf had even had a room available. Then she remembered the innkeeper had mentioned that some
of the King’s men were staying at the inn. ‘Inquisitor Goth,’ he had whispered apologetically.

Sorrel had never feared Goth. Her ability to link was well beyond his weak senses which relied upon an enchanted stone to scry out sentients. It almost made her laugh. But Alyssa would fear him, as did most people, sentient and otherwise. She could not risk the girl becoming nervous and perhaps getting herself noticed. Nevertheless, she had taken the room and paid in advance and was now wondering how in the name of Light she was going to avoid taking the happy young woman at her side to the circus. There was no way out of it. Alyssa’s heart and mind was lost to the colourful regalia, the strange-looking people weaving in and out of tents and even stranger beasts feeding and sunning themselves.

Sorrel resigned herself. ‘Perhaps we could go to the show,’ she said kindly.

Alyssa looked as though someone had just handed her a precious jewel. It seemed impossible her expression could show more delight and yet her smile stretched wider still, her eyes laughed their pleasure and the shriek which escaped her as she threw her arms around her friend was worth the four royals it would cost Sorrel.

Inquisitor Goth was furious. His fine stallion had stumbled and lightly sprained a leg as his imposing troop had cantered into town and now the horse was
being rested, much to his disgust, in the Fragglesham stable. What a piss-poor excuse for a town this was and, to add misery to woe, the hated circus had arrived yesterday—a carbuncle on society with its flea-ridden beasts and freakish gypsies.

He banged his mug on the table in another empty show of wrath. His company was making its way back to Tal whilst he lingered in the town, refusing to leave without his prized stallion which was two days from being fit enough to travel. The noise, he knew, would get him nowhere but he liked to see the fat sod of an innkeeper sweat and, even better, it unnerved the serving girls. It might help to soften them up for his games later, he thought viciously. He leered at one young woman. She had large breasts and he imagined himself pinching them hard and making her scream. Yes, he’d make them pay all right for this delay.

The tic on the left side of his face twitched erratically but he cared little. He was powerful. No longer an orphaned, penniless noble’s brat but a man to be respected. That fire which had ripped through his family’s home had served a purpose. A painful one but nonetheless it had rid him of his useless parents: one a drunken skirt-chaser, the other a whimpering wreck; both headed for the debt courts having squandered his grandfather’s fortune. Tallinor’s Great Fire had simply sped them on their way. After their useless, pathetic lives, death must have felt like a welcome embrace, or so he liked to tell himself.

The small child left behind had been maimed by the flames but breathed still. With the inspired healing
ministrations of the famous Physic Merkhud, Almyd Goth had rallied, then strengthened, and finally walked from what had seemed his deathbed straight into the arms of the royal family, who had taken pity on the ruined face of the boy from noble parents.

‘You must rue the day you clapped eyes on my twisted face, Nyria.’ Goth giggled into his ale. ‘And your despised servant, that old man, would poison me now as soon as spit on me. He must long to be able to turn back the years and snuff out the life of the child he fought so hard to save.’

His mouth was twisted into an ugly smile when he turned to see a startlingly beautiful young woman talking excitedly as she entered The Wheatsheaf, an old woman following her.

‘Tonight then?’ The girl was talking about the circus, he realised with a snarl.

‘Anything to stop you twittering, Alyssa,’ her companion replied.

They had not noticed him but he watched the old woman push the girl towards the steps. Goth licked his undefined rubbery lips—another legacy of the fire which had smudged almost every feature of his face into the other. Only the cold, slate-coloured eyes, with their icy hatred of anything and anyone handsome or gifted in any way, were whole. Now, as those eyes followed the shapely rear of Alyssa Qyn disappearing up the inn’s stairs, he decided she would be his sport for tonight and help take the edge off his crippling boredom.

Alyssa’s stomach clenched as she descended the stairs to look for Sorrel. There was only one man in all of Tallinor with a face like that. Although she had never before seen Chief Inquisitor Goth his reputation was legend and she had no doubt whatsoever that it was him sitting at the table between her and the inn’s door.