The Nethergrim (15 page)

Katherine’s father seemed to come back from far away, and the look of fond reminiscence died upon his face. “And now, child, we reach the part of the story that no one knows, none save the three who survived it. What I am about to tell you is an oathbound secret. Here I break that oath.”

Chapter
15

S
he has a Voice.

Edmund shivered. He had burned through the last of his family’s store of oil, and charred up the wick of the lantern to a crisp. The window of his bedroom stood open for light, but it let in a hard blue draft.

It is beautiful beyond expression.
Firm Hand, author of the last of the pages in the book, scribbled in the margins around a twist of ancient symbol:
It is the first time I have ever felt what other men describe as love.

“Who are you?” Edmund leaned low on his arm. “Who is She?” He stared at the script, but it gave no answer.

She cannot die. She cannot ever die. Fool that I was to think it.
The script lost its firmness, turning spidery and crowding to the edges of the page:
She is the fount and source of all thought, all power, all that is hidden to men. Those who served Her long ago rose to a dominion beyond the dreams of kings. I will do as they once did, I will serve Her as they once served Her. She has called, and I have answered. I am to be Hers forever.

Edmund sat back and rubbed at his eyes. Geoffrey’s spare tunic hung over the edge of the trunk beside him—a hand-me-down, like all of his clothes. Toys lay piled in the corner: a few knights carved from bits of wood, a sword made of sticks bound with twine, a top that never spun right.

“I will find you.” Edmund pinched across the bridge of his nose, half to wake himself and half to stop himself from blubbing. “I swear I will.” He searched again through all the places in the book where he had found some hint, some guess at a direction in the mountains.

Two centers, one a city, the other a forbidden stronghold for the Gatherers. A place where rivers join in a valley.
A list came next, the names of all the rivers Edmund knew and one he did not:
The Tamber, the Rushing, the Mara, the Swift. Do they all drain south? Ask Aelfric if he has a copy of Plegmund.

“Plegmund.” Edmund beat at his weary mind. The same Plegmund who wrote
Journey Beyond the White Sea
?
Aelfric—Lord Aelfric?

A rap at the door: “Edmund? Son?”

Edmund jammed the book behind his bolster just in time. His mother opened the door. “Oh, son—you didn’t sleep.”

“Mum, we can save him.” Edmund sat on his quill. “We can save Geoffrey, I know it.”

His mother lowered herself down at his side. “My boy.” She touched his hair. “My good boy.” She had not slept either—he had heard her weeping through the walls for the whole of the night.

“Oh, my son.” She dragged a kerchief across her face, then blew her nose. “You loved your brother, didn’t you? You did.”

Edmund grabbed her sleeve. “Don’t talk like he’s dead—Mum, he’s not dead!”

“You tried.” She squeezed his hand. “I’ll never forget that you tried.”

“Please don’t give up. Mum, don’t.”

His mother balled up the kerchief, then stretched it out. “You had a sister. Did your father ever tell you?”

Edmund reeled. A sister? “No—when?”

“The year before you. She came out blue. She—” His mother could not finish. She hunched down, and Edmund found himself with his arm around her, holding her through shudders that shook the bed.

“Oh. Oh.” She kissed his cheek, got tears on him. “My sweet boy. You are my only now. My only.”

Edmund opened his mouth to tell her that he would not give up, that he would follow every trace he could—and understood just in time that it was the last thing he should say.

His mother got up slowly, every breath a sigh. “We should go down now. Lord Aelfric’s here. He wants everyone in the square.”

“Yes, Mum.” Edmund reached for his boots. Maybe Lord Aelfric knew something that could help. It was worth a try, at least.

“Make sure you get some breakfast.” Edmund’s mother gathered up her hair on her way downstairs, braiding without looking. “I put your clod-shoes on the step. We’re harvesting on Redfurlong this morning.”

Edmund stood stupid in his doorway. “Today?” He came down into the tavern and opened the front door. His neighbors shuffled past on the Longsettle road, gathering up toward the square in a bleary clump. His father stood with a dozen local men by the stone steps of the hall, all of them wearing the dingy green tabards of the village levy. Some leaned upon spears, and the rest carried longbows and clubs or axes. A half-dozen dogs curled in among them, shaggy collies and sheepdogs wagging their tails in anticipation of the hunt.

“I must ask you once again, everyone, for silence.” Harry stood a step above the men, in polished mail and bright surcoat, an ornate longsword kept in a silver-chased scabbard at his belt. “My noble father is well aware of the events of last night and what they may portend. That is why we have come here today, to beat the bounds of the village and search for any sign of your missing children. My father has graciously chosen to release these dozen of your men from their labors to aid in the effort, and asks no extra tax from your village in recompense, so much does the sorrow of this day fill his heart. You must place your trust in him, as is his due from you, his people.”

Edmund stepped out into the empty sunshine. Morning lit the mountains cold and cheerless in the west. He pressed into the swelling crowd.

“There he is!” Hob Hollows slapped Edmund’s shoulder as he passed. “There’s our man—the Wizard of Moorvale, you are!” His brother Bob grunted and nudged Edmund’s other side—as close to talking as Bob ever got.

“Story’s getting around.” Wat Cooper leaned in to grin over Edmund. “Thought I saw that light up on the hill last night. Whole village is talking about it!”

“Ha, and here we thought you’d be serving us our ale all your life!” Hob burped out a laugh. “And now think, lads—who’s to inherit the inn once Edmund here’s run off to apprentice himself to some great fancy wizard somewhere, now that—”

Hob stopped—both his brother and Wat Cooper glared at him. Edmund bit his lip, willing himself not to burst into tears right in front of them.

“Oh—hey now, Edmund.” Hob scratched his straggled beard. “Don’t take that wrong. There’s hope for Geoffrey yet, I’m sure.”

Edmund thrust onward without answering, slipping in between his nervous, chattering neighbors until he reached the front of the crowd.

“Would that we all could search the hills and wastes for this missing boy and girl.” Harry bore a bright helm under his arm. He raised his other hand, palm extended up in a gesture of studied oratory Edmund had once seen sketched in a manual on courtly grace. “I do not think I need remind you that no fear of foul creatures in the woods should make you forget the winter soon to come. It falls to you all to work the fields, so that you may reap the grain you have sown and store enough to last your families through to spring.”

“It’s not our fields we’re working today.” Someone muttered it just quietly enough. “It’s yours.”

“Now those of you assigned to the search will march up to the keep as one force.” Harry turned to address the levy men—most of them double his age. “There we will inspect the ground for signs of these creatures and have the dogs track their scents if they can. If we must follow more than one trail from there, we will divide into companies of no fewer than five. I want everyone to keep close—no straying off on your own. Be on your guard at all times; an attack may come from any quarter.”

Edmund kicked at a pebble. “Waste of time.” He stood on his toes and looked around for Lord Aelfric.

“Good squire, if I may.” Martin Upfield raised a hand. “What are we looking for, exactly?”

Hugh Jocelyn waved his cap from the back of the crowd. “Yes, does this mean there are more of them bolgugs about?”

“Don’t be stupid.” Jordan Dyer flicked his fingers. “Bolgugs don’t come out in the day.”

Hugh shook his head. “Shows what you know, you young fool.”

“We do not know anything for certain.” Harry raised his voice over the argument. “We will use the greatest caution until we are more sure. Now—”

Loud ringing sounds drowned the rest of his words—Aydon Smith mending a levy spear in his shop across the square. By the time Harry caught Aydon’s eye and signaled him to stop, the villagers had turned his ordered plan into anarchy.

“I saw one this morning, you know.” Gilbert Wainwright carried the oddest weapon present—an antique battle-axe whose thick oaken haft and double head seemed far too heavy for his wiry arms.

“What, a bolgug?” Half the village turned around. “Where?”

“Out by Longfurlong, just after dawn,” said Gilbert. “I was on my way to mend the far fence and saw big yellow eyes over by the rocks near the creek.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, it wasn’t a squirrel!”

Harry raised a hand. “Wait, now, wait—let’s not jump to conclusions.”

“That’s right next to my father’s house!” Lefric Green had a voice only a mother could love—and Luilda Twintree, for some reason. “You might have warned us.”

Gilbert looked indignant. “Well, I haven’t seen you since last night, have I?”

“You could have come by this morning! My old mother—”

“Will you all please just listen for a moment?” A note of frustration crept into Harry’s voice.

“Sir?” Jordan Dyer cupped a hand to shout. “Maybe we should start down at Longfurlong, sir.”

“No, it won’t be there anymore.” How Nicky Bird had gotten himself chosen for the search party was anyone’s guess. “We should head right into the woods.”

“And then what, just blunder around all day and hope we run into them?”

Nicky jerked a thumb. “Harry’s got a plan!”

“Yes, in fact I do have a plan, and if you would all just—”

The grand double doors of the village hall swung open, forcing Harry to step aside before he was knocked off the stairs. Lord Aelfric of Elverain stood the same height as his son, though he would have been taller in his youth. The silver thread in his belt glinted the same shade as his hair and the many rings that adorned his liver-spotted hands. A half-dozen castle guards followed him out onto the steps. They wore long green tabards like the village men, though theirs looked in much less need of a wash.

“My people.” Lord Aelfric spoke in a voice gone thin and airy with the years. “I grieve with you on this dark day. You may lay trust that we will do all we can to secure this village. We have brought a generous boon of food and drink for the harvest. My son will lead a troop of guards to ensure that your work goes on without hindrance. Return you all to the fields, for the frost will not be delayed by your sorrow, nor your fear.”

Edmund, like everyone, expected him to say more, but he simply waited in silence, looking past them at something down the road. Edmund turned—four men approached the square from the west, bearing a shrouded corpse between them. All talk ceased as the procession drew near, and a way was made for the passage of the dead.

Peter’s mother stepped out of the crowd. She caught sight of her husband walking behind the men. Their gazes met. When the body had come within five paces, she fell to her knees, and then, reaching her hands over her head, she curled down to the earth.

Telbert Overbourne knelt beside his wife. He put his arms in hers. For a moment they shuddered together, then they staggered up and followed the body of their son as it was borne up the steps of the hall and into the darkness beyond.

Lord Aelfric waited for the corpse to pass, then strode down off the steps toward the stable. The villagers looked at each other, shifted and murmured, then dispersed.

“My lord?” Edmund elbowed through his neighbors to the edge of the crowd. He found Lord Aelfric stretching out his back beside his horse and sizing up the leap into the saddle.

“Here, Father, let me.” Harry stepped up beside Lord Aelfric and knelt with his hands laced together.

Aelfric glared at him. “I can still gain my saddle alone.”

“Yes, Father.” Harry stood away. “You are not still angry?”

“This is a fool’s errand, boy. There are greater things at stake than the lives of a few—” Lord Aelfric cast a sidelong glance at Edmund, and fell silent. He climbed up stiff into the saddle.

Edmund did not know how to begin, but Lord Aelfric had already taken his reins. “My lord—wait, my lord! Has anyone ever asked to borrow a book from you written by Plegmund of Sparrock?”

Aelfric stopped his horse. He narrowed his eyes. “And who might you be?”

“Edmund.” He remembered to bow. “Edmund Bale, my lord.”

“Oh—Father, this must be the boy who cast that spell last night.” Harry held out an arm, though he did not quite touch Edmund’s shoulder. “Wait—I recognize you—from the fair! Better with a spell than a longbow, I must say!”

Edmund stepped around Harry and in front of Lord Aelfric’s horse. “My lord, please—if you search only around Wishing Hill, you won’t find my brother, or Tilly Miller. There’s something else going on, I know it, and—”

“Heed some advice.” Lord Aelfric folded gloved hands on his pommel. “From all I have learned in a long life, the secrets of magic are most assiduously guarded by the men who make use of them. Were I you, I would find a way to lose my growing reputation as—what are folk saying?—the Wizard of Moorvale, before too many real wizards hear tell of it.”