Songs of the Earth (3 page)

‘This is not the end, Ansel.’ Goran levelled a finger at Gair. ‘You will hear of this again.’ He stalked away towards the doors, his supporters clustered around him. Rustling and shuffling, the remainder of the hierarchs descended from their benches and followed.

Gair sagged against the railing. It was over, and he still had his life. Somehow. Before he had had more than a moment to savour it, the marshals had unchained him and were marching him across the marble-tiled floor. He looked back over his shoulder, but Ansel had already turned away.

Out in the vestibule, his escort prodded him through a side door and down a sloping windowless corridor. It opened onto a circular, chimney-like courtyard floored with cracked and blackened stones around the deep socket for the stake: Traitor’s Court, where Corlainn the heretic had paid for his sins in the Founding Wars, and where the citizens of Dremen would have come tomorrow to see another witch burn. The tiers of galleries stood empty, looking down on nothing more than a scarred wooden block with leather straps nailed to it. A brazier stood next to it, tended by a squat, shirtless man in a farrier’s apron. Above the brazier the air danced with heat. The iron pushed deep into the coals was cherry-red halfway to the handle. Despair yawned in Gair’s belly as he was shoved out into the sun.

A few feet from the farrier stood a slim, upright figure in marshal’s mail and surcoat. Gold thread outlined the gauntlet badge on his breast and he wore the golden cords of Provost on his upper arm.

The marshals stamped to attention. Bredon acknowledged their salutes with a nod. Dark, hooded eyes looked Gair over without emotion.

‘Please, my lord …’
Don’t do this
.

The lines that ran from hooked nose to mouth deepened a fraction. ‘Is the prisoner fit to stand sentence?’ Bredon asked.

The farrier grasped Gair’s head between callused hands to thumb back his eyelids. He jerked his head away as the sunlight stung his eyes. Then the farrier pinched up the skin on his upper arm, hard enough to hurt.

‘Seen better,’ the man grunted. ‘But he’s got the will.’

‘Proceed.’

Gair’s escort dragged him towards the block. A kick in the back of his knees forced him to kneel whilst the manacle on his left wrist was unlocked. Desperately he lashed out with the dangling chain and missed. The butt of a marshal’s mace connected with the side of his head.

‘Be still, hidderling,’ the marshal snarled. ‘Face your punishment like a man, if not a Knight!’

The noon sun was too bright, its shadows black and sharp as daggers, pounding into Gair’s skull. He couldn’t focus, had no strength to resist as his left arm was forced onto the block, the other twisted up tight between his shoulder-blades by the chain. His fingers were shoved under a broad iron staple and leather straps hauled tight around his elbow and wrist. Blood dripped from his face, pocking the dusty stones like summer rain.

At the brazier, the farrier wrapped a scrap of leather around the iron’s handle and lifted it from the coals. The straw-coloured heel of the branding-iron smoked, the air around it roiling.

Oh Goddess no
. Gair struggled to tug his hand free, but the straps held him fast.

‘No,’ he managed. His breath whistled through clenched teeth. ‘Goddess, please! No!’

The throbbing heat of the iron struck like a blow as it was aligned carefully, almost delicately, above the centre of his palm. Sweat burst from his skin. The farrier’s eyes slid briefly in Bredon’s direction, seeking approval. Then the brand pressed down.

Wind swept down from the snow-cap with a keenness that cut the breath from Gair’s lungs. He had climbed as high as he dared this time, to a rocky spur far above the tree line where the air was so thin and cold it burned. This was where he belonged. Up here he could be himself, with none to watch him but the sky.

He stepped towards the edge of the rock. The wind swirled boisterously there, fiercer, colder, eager to be gone, like him. Below his perch lay the Laraig Anor range, a maze of black granite and blue snow-shadows, awaiting the sun. Soon it would crest the ridge behind him. Already the sky above was brightening, the last stars long since faded. Simiel Dawnbringer was a mere ghost in the west, yellow as old bones.

He took another step. The wind snatched at him; he stretched his arms wide and embraced it. Sunrise struck the shoulder of Tir Breann opposite, turning the snows bright as steel fresh from the forge. One last step and his toes gripped the very edge of the rock. Almost time. Now he leaned out into the void, only the wind between him and a slow fall into nothing, but he trusted it. The wind would carry him; it always had. As long as he lived, it would not let him fall.

His pulse quickened in anticipation. The new day was close,
sizzling just out of sight. Below, the valley held its breath. A moment more, a blink, a heartbeat.
Now
. He leapt.

For an instant he hung suspended, neither rising nor descending, neither flying nor falling, captured as surely as a charm in a sphere of finest Isles crystal. Muscles moved, slid over and against each other, shifting bone and sinew in the complex dance that enabled him to ride the wind. Perfect. Pinions thrummed, whispering their song around him. Sunlight across his shoulders turned his flesh to gold and fire.
Perfect
.

And then he fell.

Gair jerked awake. His breath whooshed out of him, stomach yawning away, still falling into the ringing silence of the mountains – except he wasn’t in the mountains any more. Dogs barked in the distance, wagons rumbled over cobbles. In the city? Not the Motherhouse; the bed under him was too soft and the linens too fine. Where was he?

He pushed himself up into a sitting position and his left palm blossomed into fire. ‘Holy Mother!’ Clutching his hand to his chest, he fell back onto the pillows. A blank white shriek filled his head.
Holy Mother dear Goddess above it hurts
. He squeezed his wrist tightly to distract himself until the pain began to ebb.

‘Drink this. It’ll help with the pain.’

A hand held a pottery beaker towards him. Beyond it, Gair saw only a vague shape in the shadows where the speaker must be.

‘Where is this place?’

‘We’re at an inn called the Oak and Eagle, off Copper Chare on the west side of Dremen. I brought you here from Traitor’s Gate.’

‘Are you a physician?’

‘A hedge-doctor, no more.’ The man nodded towards the cup. ‘That’ll do you more good if you swallow it. It tastes foul, but trust me, you’ll feel better for it.’

Gair took the cup. ‘What’s in it?’

‘Athalin, with a little willow-bark, and white mallow for your bruises. Nothing that will cause you harm.’

The man’s rounded baritone was soothing, but still. ‘I don’t know you.’

‘I didn’t bring you here just so I could poison you in private, lad. Drink up.’

Gair looked at the milky stuff in the cup. Well, he had nothing left to lose. As promised, it tasted dreadful. Holding his breath, he downed it in three swallows.

The man took the empty cup from him and set it aside. ‘Now, a little light so we can see what we’re about.’

He folded back one of the window shutters. Afternoon spilled into the room, bright as a banner. It illuminated a large-boned fellow with fierce blue eyes framed between a short pepper-and-salt beard and bristling brows. Thick, wavy hair matched the beard for colour and curled around the man’s ears like the mane on a stone lion.

‘Is that too much?’

‘No, it’s fine.’ Gair still had to squint, but his eyes were stronger than before.

The man pulled up a chair, reversed it and sat down, his arms folded across the back. Ropy muscle corded forearms the colour of teak under a scurf of silver hair. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

‘Well enough. Sore.’

‘The athalin should take the edge off it soon. Ironhand’s a good man, but some of his marshals are a little too fond of their maces.’

‘You know Bredon?’

‘By reputation.’

Gair’s left hand lay in his lap, curled like the claws of a dead bird. The gauzy dressing wrapped around it gave off a prickly herbal smell. Branded. What did it look like? Angry and bloated, blisters rising out of his flesh like bubbles in a pot of stew?
Goddess forgive me
. He rubbed his eyes wearily.

‘Try to keep that hand still if you can. Considering what they did it’s not too bad. It should heal well, although you’ll always have a scar.’

A witchmark. A slanted, scowling eye staring out of his palm to remind him of his sin, and to warn others against him. He could wear gloves; keep his hands dirty. Keep it hidden. His stomach coiled into a sour knot. Being outcast was nothing new, after all. Saints, his head hurt. ‘Why did you bring me here?’

‘You needed somewhere to be. This was as good a place as any.’

‘You could have left me.’

‘No, I couldn’t. There was a mob waiting for you at the gates, ready to finish what the Motherhouse started. I was not prepared to stand by and let murder be done.’

‘But you know what I am.’

A smile twitched the man’s beard. ‘I know what the Church thinks you are, which isn’t quite the same thing.’ He extended a square hand. ‘My name is Alderan.’

Gair stared at him. Who was this man? Why did he want to help a stranger, when he could easily have crossed the square and gone on with his day? Why store up trouble for himself? Alderan’s mild, open expression did not change a whit and his hand remained extended towards the bed. Slowly, Gair accepted the clasp.

‘Gair.’

‘No family name?’

‘No family.’

‘A man’s friends make the best family, my mother used to say. At least he can choose them.’ The chair creaked as Alderan stood up. ‘Rest there for a while, let that athalin get to work. We’ll talk more when you’re feeling better. There’ll be time enough tomorrow.’

You have until dusk today to comply
. ‘What time is it?’

‘Gone three hours after noon. High rang whilst you were asleep.’

Fear became an icy grip on Gair’s spine. ‘I have to be out of the parish by dusk.’

‘There’s plenty of time.’

‘You don’t understand. I have to go, now.’

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up, but the room wheeled around him. That had been a mistake. But time was passing, time of which he had too little to waste. Lightning-flashes of sickly yellow lit up the dull red throb behind his eyes, but he gritted his teeth and tried to stand.

Alderan’s hand pressed on his shoulder. ‘Wait.’

‘I appreciate what you’ve done for me, but I have to get moving.’

The hand pressed down more firmly. ‘Just wait.’

‘Damn it, Alderan, I’ve got to go!’ Gair struggled to rise, but was kept seated with distressingly little effort. He should have been able to put the old man on his backside but he couldn’t even get up from the bed. He kicked out in frustration.

Alderan sidestepped, smooth as a dancer. ‘Goddess’ golden apples, boy!’ he exclaimed. ‘Must you make everything hard work?’

Strength draining from him like water from a holed bucket, Gair sagged onto the pillows. His head thudded. Waves of nausea rose and fell, leaving a sour taste in the back of his throat.

The old man blew out his moustaches and dropped back into his chair. ‘Let me help you. I’ve got a spare horse in the stables; we can be over the border well before dusk with no one the wiser. You’d never reach the boundary in time if you went on foot – the marshals saw to that when they knocked your wits into next week. Besides, you need a bath and a shave and you haven’t a stitch to wear. Now we can fight about it if you want, or you can sit still and recognise good sense when it’s poured in your ear. What’s it going to be?’

‘You’re only making trouble for yourself. I can get a horse if I need one.’

‘By thieving? And what about clothes? Would you steal those too?’

‘If I had to.’

Alderan shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. You haven’t got the time, nor, dare I say it, the temperament to be skulking about the city in your skin stealing what you need.’ The lines around his eyes softened and his voice gentled. ‘I mean you no harm, Gair, truly. Please, trust me.’