Betrayal (26 page)

‘When is the Festival?’ Tor asked.

Merkhud puffed his cheeks and then blew the air out. He scratched his beard. ‘Oh…let’s see now. The next full moon the festivities will commence. It stretches over several days and people arrive at various times.’

‘What are they celebrating?’

‘Survival mostly, I’d think,’ Merkhud answered on reflex. ‘No, that’s not quite right. Its true meaning has long been forgotten but the Festival is so steeped in tradition that it is very important to the folk of the north.’

‘And we were supposed to attend?’

‘Well, yes. I thought it would be good for you to experience something as special as this. So few people would have the opportunity…’ He let his words trail off deliberately.

Tor looked miserable.

‘But look here, Tor,’ Merkhud began brightly, as though a wonderful idea had struck him. He could hardly believe he was able to sound so jolly as he laid his trap. He hated doing this to the boy. If the truth be known, he felt as though he should bite off his own tongue to prevent this innocent being entangled any further in the horrible web of deceit which had been woven five years ago.

‘I don’t fully understand it but I do appreciate the passion with which you’ve expressed yourself today. Perhaps I’ve been too hard on you; if that’s so, it’s because I love you, boy. I feel like a father to you.’ He smiled and then added, ‘Well, grandfather perhaps.’

Tor shrugged. This was awkward for him.

‘I haven’t hidden anything from you, boy, but I have always wanted you to be the very best. Your talents are astounding; I don’t know either what this world has in store for you but I certainly had hoped I’d always be able to protect you from squandering that talent. Handing yourself over to the likes of Goth amounts to the same thing.’

‘But, Merkhud, Goth cannot see it. No one but you—and perhaps others like you or me—can. So what do you fear exactly?’

Tor was right of course. Goth was completely unaware of the powerful magic which was being wielded in front of his ugly face. That gave Merkhud small satisfaction.

‘Child, Goth has sufficient authority to kill you first and have the questions asked later. He hates you. He does not need much of a push to cook up a reason to have you despatched.’

Tor laughed. It was full-throated and filled with genuine mirth. Merkhud was shocked.

‘You think he’s a match for me?’ Tor was not being arrogant; there was too much honesty in him to bother with such folly. ‘How would he ever hold me long enough to kill me, Merkhud?’

All true, Merkhud accepted silently.

‘You forget what I said earlier, Tor. He doesn’t necessarily need to hurt you personally. There are far more subtle ways to inflict damage on you by hurting the people you care for.’

Tor nodded. Merkhud was right. Goth was unscrupulous and would not hesitate to contrive the death of someone like Cyrus if it meant he could hurt Tor by doing so.

‘Well, that’s another reason for me to leave here,’ Tor said.

Merkhud jumped in. ‘But not like this. Not stomping out, never to be seen or heard from again by people who have shared your life and care deeply for you.’

Tor was puzzled. ‘You have another suggestion?’

‘I do. Go to Caremboche for me. Represent Lorys, Nyria and myself.’

Tor was astonished. ‘Go alone?’

A flapping sound at the window alerted them that Cloot had reappeared.

Merkhud made a sound of disgust. ‘Do you agree with me, boy, that that bird listens to everything we say? I’m sure the falcon will accompany you but essentially, yes, you will go alone.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘Don’t say anything; you have my leave to go. We will provide you with a horse, food, money. You will be representing the royal family. I hope you will consider it an honour.’

‘I won’t let you down, Merkhud.’ Tor wanted to hug the old man. How could his world spin one way and then another in a matter of hours?

Merkhud suddenly reached out and took both Tor’s hands in his. He squeezed hard. ‘I want you to promise me that you will mind my warning. Be aware, be very, very sure of this,’ whispered the old man in earnest. ‘These women at Caremboche are not called “Untouchables” for no reason.’

Tor nodded but Merkhud squeezed harder. ‘Tor, this is serious. You have a reputation. I know how much you enjoy the company of women. Not a hair on the head of any woman at Caremboche must be touched by a man. It spells ruin for the girl and the perpetrator.’

He paused. ‘They won’t hesitate to deal harshly with the couple in question.’ He stared hard at Tor, impressing his words on the young man.

‘I hear your warning, Merkhud. I promise you, I will conduct myself impeccably.’

Merkhud relaxed and smiled warmly. The trap was set and the bait was luring its victim. He felt contempt for himself as he turned away from the boy whose death knell was already sounding.

It would haunt Merkhud’s dreams from this day on.

I
t had been five days since they had departed Tal and the countryside had hardened from the lush vineyards of the southern counties into the rugged hills of the mid north.

Tor was filled with a sense of optimism. He had no regrets about leaving the Palace, though he did feel hollow at not wishing his great friend Cyrus farewell. That thought haunted his happiness like a cloud but he managed to push it away most of the time, reassuring himself that Cyrus would get his note and understand.

Cloot thought otherwise.

Well, what would you have had me do? Wait around ’til Sixthday when he may have ridden back into the city? No one knew when that camp of theirs would finish.

He deserves better
, the falcon persisted.

They had endured several similar tetchy exchanges during the journey so far and Cloot usually ended their conversation by snapping shut the link and flying off for a while. Tor quietly agreed with the falcon’s sentiments but had no idea what he could have done differently. Having had it out with Merkhud there was no choice but to leave and, anyway, the old man had insisted that he make haste if he was to reach Ildagarth by next Fourthday.

Tor heard a squeal and pulled his thoughts back to the present, noticing that Cloot was circling high above him. He watched with awe as the bird hovered effortlessly then suddenly dipped its head and went into a dive. Cloot seemed to fall out of the sky, gathering speed with his wings shaped like an arrow.

Must have seen another rabbit, Tor thought, his stomach lurching at the notion of his friend gorging on entrails.

He allowed his horse to follow her nose along the narrow path they were treading and he returned to his musings.

Queen Nyria had known, of course. Tor recalled how she had looked at him when saying goodbye. They both knew she was more than well enough to be standing in the Palace courtyard but she played along, allowing her maids to wrap a heavy shawl around her shoulders. He remembered how she had held onto the King’s arm and tottered, as though weary after the effort of getting up from her sick bed. Her expression had communicated something
entirely different to him, though, as she wished him an uneventful journey and speedy return home.

‘Don’t be away too long, Torkyn Gynt.’

He had bent to kiss her outstretched hand and could not resist sending a gentle spike of love through his lips as they touched the back of her hand. He saw it register in her eyes; they blazed with recognition of his magic.

‘Madam.’ He had bowed low then, not daring to look at her again and she had not uttered another word to him.

The King, however, was unable to look him in the eye at all. Tor sensed that his sovereign was suffering. Lorys knew nothing but magic could have saved the Queen from death. Light knew, she had been barely clinging to life. Lorys, because of his devotion to Nyria, had ignored what had occurred; even though it went against everything he stood for and believed in, he allowed it because it meant saving that which he loved more than any other. It made Tor’s stomach turn as he thought of all the poor wretches who had been punished, tortured and banished in the name of sentient cleansing.

The hardest part for Tor was knowing that Lorys was indeed a good man. An excellent King. Lorys had proved it over and over again in just the short time Tor had been at the Palace. Such compassion for his subjects; such a love for his Kingdom. If only, Tor thought once again, the King could find the courage to deal with Goth and the whole misfounded fear of sentient people. This was another reason why he had
to leave. He had to get away from Lorys and the hypocrisy he now ruled under.

Countless other well-wishers had gathered to bid him a safe journey. Deep down Tor wondered whether he would ever see them again. He was not so sure he would be back, though he played along with the supposition.

They had all been such good friends to him. Even the young pages were there. The older soldiers, who were not on the camp with Cyrus, saluted him. He realised then, with just a little pride, that every face in the Palace bailey was a familiar one. He had treated and healed each of them at some stage during his time in Tal. Their presence today, he was reminded by Cook, was a rare sight usually reserved for the King or Queen. The gathering of so many acknowledged what a popular figure he had become.

Tor forced himself to search out Goth. It was not hard. There he was, standing not far from the King and wearing his usual smirk. Here was one person who would be thoroughly glad to see the back of him and Goth was probably amongst the throng just to make sure he really did leave. He wondered how Goth was dealing with the restored health of the Queen. He surely must have known she was on her deathbed and that it should have been simply a matter of time. However, it was one thing to accuse a peasant of wielding forbidden powers; it was quite another to accuse the most well-loved person in the royal circle, bar the sovereigns themselves, of the same crime. Goth would be required to justify such a
claim and proof would be difficult to provide. His sneer was directed at Tor and both knew they had a score yet to settle. It could wait. It would have to.

Finally Tor had embraced Merkhud. Their affection for one another was genuine but, like any father and son, parting was necessary—essential even.

Once Tor was through the city gates and the throng of waving well-wishers was behind him, Cloot had joined him, flying low alongside him. Both had laughed as Tor encouraged his new young filly, Timara, a gift from the King, into a gallop. He slowed her down only when they were well into open countryside and the sense of leaving Tal behind was complete.

Now, guiding his horse with his knees as Cyrus had taught him years previous, Tor pulled out the small pouch which he had kept secret since Jhon Gynt had given it to him. He was shocked to see that the Stones of Ordolt, which had remained dull and lifeless for the past few years, had begun to burn with vibrant colours again.

He did not understand any of it but he had taught himself to follow his instincts. The orbs which his parents—his real parents—had left for him were all he had to link himself with his past and somehow he knew they should be trusted.

Three days later Cloot and Tor arrived at the small town of Saddleworth. Tor found a modest room for
the night at The Horse and Lamb. The falcon decided to remain in the nearby woodland.

Tor was tucking into a tasty stew when Cloot linked with him.
By the way, what excuse would you give Cyrus for walking out on him without a proper goodbye?

Tor continued chewing.
Why do you ask?

Oh, only that I think you may have the opportunity
, Cloot replied.

With that, the inn’s door was flung open and Cyrus barged in, his expression grim. If Tor had not been sitting against a wall he would surely have toppled backwards off his chair.

Cyrus looked saddle-weary. His usually immaculate clothes were dusty and his grey eyes were flinty with anger. ‘Why?’ His voice was edged with danger.

Tor knew there was no point in being glib with Cyrus. Only honesty worked when the Prime was in this mood. He covered his shock by swallowing and taking a moment to compose himself.

‘Will you join me?’ he finally said, self-consciously.

The Prime ignored him. The room had become quiet; its occupants sensed a confrontation and had stopped to watch.

Tor cleared his throat and held his cup in the air towards the innkeeper. He raised two fingers and the innkeeper nodded, busying himself with pouring an ale for the lad and the soldier who had just walked in. The simple chore eased some of the tension and forced people to return to their own conversations.

Tor, relieved, looked back at Cyrus whose expression had not softened in those moments. He wondered whether the Prime might hit him; he looked angry enough.

‘It’s something I have to do, Cyrus. I don’t really understand it myself but life at the Palace is no longer…’ Tor searched for the word, ‘…enough.’

He held up his hand as he saw Cyrus was about to leap in again, his anger ready to spill over.

‘No, wait,’ Tor said firmly. ‘Let me try to explain…and please, sit, have an ale with me. You look terrible.’

A girl banged down two mugs on the table and Tor gave her some coins. Cyrus sat down stiffly. Tor sensed that Cloot had settled in a tree opposite the inn.

Is everything all right?
the bird asked.

I’m not sure. Cyrus wants an explanation.

Good luck
. Cloot fell silent.

Cyrus swallowed most of his ale in one thirsty gulp. He looked across the table, gaze unflinching. What he said next took Tor by surprise.

‘Has your leaving anything to do with what happened in the Heartwood between you, me and the falcon?’

Tor blinked. It was an involuntary reaction to an extraordinary question but it was enough for Cyrus to know he had hit his mark. He continued.

‘We’ve never discussed what actually occurred, Gynt, but I think we should, don’t you?’

Tor found his voice. ‘Why are you so angry?’

Cyrus nearly leapt across the table. He fought to control his temper. ‘Because you had an important role in Tal,’ he spat. ‘My men need your skills nearby; you are just beginning to handle a sword and, dammit, man, you didn’t even give me a reason…just a terse note. Why in the name of Light would you squander everything and disappear on some mad journey to the other side of the Kingdom to dance around in a mask and pay homage to a crank festival no one even understands?’ His words built into one long shout.

‘That’s not it,’ Tor said in a low voice, embarrassed by the renewed stares from the other patrons. ‘You’re not just upset, you’re scared of me…of not having me close, I mean.’

Careful, Tor,
warned Cloot.

‘Out!’ Cyrus stood up so fast and suddenly that his chair toppled with a loud clatter. Onlookers gasped.

‘We want no problem tonight, you men,’ called the innkeeper.

‘Out now!’ Cyrus bellowed.

Well, at least he’s shouting,
Cloot said.
Cyrus is far more dangerous when he speaks quietly don’t you think?
Cloot cleared his throat awkwardly. Perhaps this was not the right moment to discuss character traits.

Tor needed no further encouragement. He stood and meekly followed the Prime to the door. Some of the other men, mostly farmers, took a few steps forward as if to block Cyrus’s path. Tor was touched by their efforts to save his skin. It must look bad but
he did agree with Cloot: shouting was good; a silent Cyrus was dangerous.

Cyrus pulled off his cloak to reveal his uniform and badge of office. The men instantly became passive, two of them blurting apologies.

‘It’s all right,’ Cyrus said. ‘We’re friends.’

It was a comical thing to say under the circumstances. The Palace dined on stories of Cyrus’s legendary temper and Tor had no desire to see it unleashed on him. At the same time, he did not want to humiliate his great friend by using the magic he could feel, ever potent, at his call.

‘Hold this!’ Cyrus said to one of the farmers and handed him his cloak.

The man obeyed. Everyone watched in silence as the Prime strode out of the door with the tall young man loping behind. Once outside, Cyrus rounded on Tor. He had the sense to speak normally now but it sounded just as ugly to Tor.

‘You’re damn right I’m scared. Do you think I don’t know you go around wielding magic on your patients? Do you think I’m as stupid as Goth? He might not see it with his scrying stone—the Light knows why!—but you forget you touched me, boy, a long time ago in the forest and since then I can feel your magic!’

‘You do?’ Tor spoke before he could check himself.

‘Yes.’ Cyrus’s eyes blazed.

‘Why haven’t you said anything before?’

‘Why would I? Your powers saved my life. I was dead for sure, just like our Queen. And, miraculously,
we both survived to tell our tales simply because you chose for us to live!’

Cyrus shook his head. As quickly as it had kindled the angry spark went out of his eyes. He looked beaten. The soldier sat down on a bale of hay. Cloot dropped silently out of the dark and onto Tor’s shoulder.

Listen now, boy. This is important,
the bird said.

Tor had no idea how Cloot would know this but he lost the thread of that thought as Cyrus began to speak.

‘I’ve begun to dream. The woman whose voice I heard in the forest—the one who said you were coming to help me—well, I’ve heard her again.’

‘Lys…’ Tor breathed her name.

‘Yes, her. She warned me that you were leaving Tal on a long journey. When I returned the whole Palace was abuzz with news of your hurried departure.’

Cyrus stood again and walked over to stand in front of Tor. He seemed to struggle with what he was about to say. ‘What does it all mean?’

Tor was as confused as Cyrus.

‘Cyrus, let me tell you something. That day we came to you in the forest, we rode there through the night. You know it’s impossible to ride from Hatten to Brewis in a single night but we did it.’

‘You mean you and the bird here?’

Tor felt uncomfortable. ‘Yes.’

He was suddenly fixed with the stare he had been warned about by the soldiers of the King’s Guard. Tor had not felt the weight of that look since Cyrus had first gazed at him in The Empty Goblet.

‘Tor, I’m just a soldier but it does not pay to underestimate even the lowliest of men. Has it occurred to you that you mentioned the name of the cripple whose ear was nailed to the post at the time we met?’

Tor look confused. Cyrus reminded him. ‘When I called him a halfwit, you gave me his name. I did not mention it at the time; I just allowed you to gabble on.’

Tor’s eyes fell to his feet. He had been skilfully trapped. He remembered his mistake clearly now.

Cloot spoke.
Tell him.

Tor could not believe what Cloot had said.

This is no time for games
, scolded the bird.